


Vengeance

by Aetherius



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Community: skyrimkinkmeme, F/M, Genderbending, Hurt/Comfort, Skyrim Kink Meme, Snark, Unrequited Crush, dragonborn didn't fight in civil war, dragonborn lost the civil war anyways, dragonborns are bad at handling grief, lots of flashbacks, miraak broods a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:11:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9046718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aetherius/pseuds/Aetherius
Summary: After four eras imprisoned in Apocrypha, Miraak wants a second chance in Tamriel... and vengeance. The only thing in her way is one world-weary Dragonborn looking for redemption.(Genderbend!Miraak prompt on the meme, ongoing)





	1. Chapter 1

There was no sleeping in Apocrypha. No eating, no drinking, no need for 'mortal' pleasures or constraints. The only entertainment there was to be had - beside the occasional traveler in other books surprised to see another in Hermaeus Mora's realm - were books. There were legions of books in Apocrypha.

  
She had read them all.

  
Miraak spent the few hours free from managing the sleepers on Solstheim reading the recent acquisitions. Already there were lays and tales of 'the Dragonborn', the 'Savior of Skyrim'.

  
_The_ Dragonborn.

  
She snorted, the breath ringing off her mask. Did they think he was the only one? Had they forgotten the Dragonborn Emperors so quickly? Her own misremembered existence was already known to her: Morokei and the other priests purposefully erased her name from history. She was only remembered as a wayward spirit known to the Skaal as 'the Traitor'. Asinine ingrates, all of them. They had no idea what they owed her, what every living being owed her...

  
Miraak leafed through the newest book of songs praising this dragonborn's deeds. She'd found that the bard collections focused more on his deeds and traits than the musings of lesser men. He was a typical Nord of old. Tall; hair like the sun, or dragon's fire (the bards could never decide which); skill with a sword to rival the Blademasters of yore.

  
And he had slain Alduin: all accounts agreed on that. The Last Dragonborn wasn't mentioned in writing until he had killed the thur, using _her_ Shout. Miraak wondered if he had mantled the World-Eater's place among the dragons, if dragons would even accept having a mortal for their thur. She glanced over at Sahrotaar. Well... without bending their will.

  
Her more weak-minded servants should have returned by now with news of their findings. The leader of her cult had sent several pairs to Skyrim to suss this Dragonborn out. She didn't have the control needed to reach the mainland, not yet, but she doubted it mattered so long as they followed their instructions. They would follow her to the ends of Nirn or the grave if she asked it.

  
Miraak returned the songbook to the shelf and walked back to her dragons. The Dragonborn could wait for now. She had to oversee the sleepers building her temple.

* * *

  
Varden peered over the boulders at Blizzard Rest and watched the giants lumber around in the late summer haze. They always did this in the late afternoon, and Varden watched them when he had time to spare. As much as he hated it, there was something soothing about having a schedule everyone followed. He supposed it was his dragon nature, taking solace in any order he could find.

  
Each Fredas he would visit one of the other holds, as was his duty, and the housecarls would update him on things there. He never stayed overnight in Solitude, but Jordis understood his reasons. On Sundas, Gregor and Uthgerd went into town to buy supplies. They would be back to prepare dinner, and all five of them would share a meal as a family.

  
They would talk about whatever was happening in each others' lives, although Varden had less and less to share of late. These days he rarely felt like talking.

  
He blinked up at the afternoon sun: they should be back in an hour or so. Gregor had penciled in fish with some long green vegetable Nords were fond of, bread rolls... Of course, every dish would be swimming in butter and _of course_ , their little home didn't have a cow yet. That was something else he needed to look into, but he wasn't sure the giants wouldn't steal any heifer he brought up here.

  
His eyes glanced over the camp beneath him and he looked out to the east, where another giant clan settled at Shearpoint's base. Slightly to the north, he could see the ruins of Korvanjund...

_  
Varden stood amidst the ring of fallen draugr in High King Borgas' sepulcher. At his feet, the fallen Tongue and his Jagged Crown of myth. In the late stages of Skyrim's 'civil war', both sides were turning to fables and artifacts rather than something useful. Like **diplomacy**._

_  
He tucked the crown away into a pack and took off quietly back into the ruin. Both armies had sent their best men to retrieve the crown, and they were no doubt still fighting it out overhead. Varden would slip away in the night and hide the crown somewhere safe._

_  
He liked the idea of putting it at the Throat's peak and telling both Jarls if they wanted it, they could retrieve it **personally**. He prayed that was reason enough to get both leaders in the same room where they could talk for the first time in nearly two years. He knew if they would just talk, it could stop the fighting, stop tearing his extended family apart._

_  
Thankfully, Varden had been in more ruins the last three years than most Nords in their lifetime. He knew the layout, the tricks all the ancient builders seemed to share. He wasn't surprised to find a barred door that circumvented most of the ruins._

_  
He was surprised to see a cadre of legionnaires on the other side. And their commander-_

_  
“Varden? What are you doing here?”_

_  
Rikke. Gods, why did it have to be Rikke?_

_  
“Oh the usual, clearing out old tombs of the restless dead.”_

_  
The Legionnaires were smiling - one of them laughed. Of course they were happy: the Dragonborn was here. He was partial to the Empire after all, and everyone knew it._

_  
“Then you won't object to showing us what you've found.” Rikke said warily. She knew- how did she know he had it? Damn that woman. He could see it in her eyes._

_  
“I **do** object. Finders keepers.”_

_  
Hadvar's smile fell- Gods, Hadvar was here too? Was Akatosh testing him?_

_  
“Dragonborn.” Rikke's voice was stern but frail. “Don't force me to make this official.”_

_  
He could see the doubt creeping into the faces of the Nords and Imperials around him. The broken trust, the slow realization that he wasn't entirely on their side. Rikke was the worst of them all._

_  
"_ Tiid! _"_

_  
The Legionnaires reached for their swords or simply inhaled to gasp or shout but they froze. Varden stepped back and rubbed his face, the gravity of the situation crashing down on him. Mentally he said his goodbyes, to each of them, but he paused when it came to the Legate. Knowing this would be the last time he saw her, in a friendly manner, he took the few extra moments he could spare and committed her face to memory. She was tall, she was strong, and she was beautiful, and she looked so very, very betrayed..._

  
Varden rested his head on the boulder and just lay there, feeling the wind play with his hair and the mammoths plodding out to pasture. It didn’t make the memories any softer. It didn’t take the pit in his stomach easier to swallow. Varden sighed and walked back to the small house, leaving the giants to their nap.

  
When he'd looked into purchasing land in the Pale (and saw the 'only land available' was in what the Nords called Giants' Gap) he was sure Skald was testing how far the Dragonborn could be pushed before murdering someone. He _was_ a hero even if he didn't feel like one and frankly, he just wanted to be left alone. Heljarchen, ironically, provided that, and the added protection of two patrolling giant clans to ward off visitors.

  
Varden glanced around the valleys that lay between Whiterun hold and the Pale, and the road east of him. The land was nestled on the only flat spot of the northeastern Stonehills that wasn't 'owned' by giants. Mostly because there was a large fallen tree in the middle of it that - with broken branch stubs - lay as wide as a giant is tall, and as tall as five of them on top of the other. Varden had tried cutting through it, Shouting at it, and finally built a small homestead up against it with three yards walking space in-between.

  
While they didn't have a cow, he did own a small flock of chickens. Varden kicked a stone and smirked. He found a wicked satisfaction in naming the birds after people he didn't like. Siddgeir was an unbearably loud rooster and he _swore_ that bird would end up on the Yule table if it didn't behave. Maven was the most disagreeable hen of the lot but she laid the most eggs so Varden tolerated her. The newest hen he was thinking of naming Delphine, but the Grandmaster was the most likely of any to visit Heljarchen so he was still mulling it over.

  
The house was just big enough for living space, two small beds and one large one (Gregor and Uthgerd insisted that he deserved the largest double bed that could be made). Other than the Sword of the Pale (a useless, soul trap enchanted iron thing only good for decoration) there was nothing inside to prove the Dragonborn lived here. Most of his possessions were still scattered across Skyrim - the lakeside manor had several mounds of dragon remains shoved into corners but he didn't dare go back there.

  
There were several places in Skyrim he didn't dare return to, but the manor especially. He hadn’t returned since those soldiers ambushed him-

  
“You there!”

  
Varden's hand sprung to his hip. By the Nine, all he had was an iron dagger. Stupid. _Stupid_.

  
Two strangers in bile-tinted gold robes and bone masks stood at his door. Varden let his hands fall to his side and did his best to act normal, like he wasn't threatened by anyone brave (or idiotic) enough to seek out his house.

  
“You are the one they call Dragonborn?”

  
Varden grimaced. So they were looking for him: wonderful. Strangely though, they didn't seem moved to any  particular emotion by his presence. This was different from the other attempts. These two were armed, but they didn't hold themselves like warriors. Mages perhaps. Tall: Nords most likely, but too short to be Altmer. If they were trying to intimidate him, he was going to laugh his arse off after he'd Shouted them into Stonehill Bluff.

  
“And who might you be?”

  
“Are you the False Dragonborn?” One asked, walking off his front step to stand 'threateningly' a sword's length away.

  
Varden's eyes narrowed. “There is only _one_ Dragonborn: the slayer of Alduin. The Greybeards called him to High Hrothgar and _you_ are testing his infamously short temper.”

  
His temper wasn't known for anything in truth, but he did want these strangers to leave him alone. He would give a thousand septims to have even the Sword of the Pale in his hand right now.

  
“Then we are too late...”

  
“The lie has already taken root in the hearts of men.”

  
“And borne fruit.” Varden said sarcastically, crossing his arms across his chest. What lie were they talking about? The second one had a Dunmeri accent, a rather thick too, that he couldn’t place. He’d never heard anyone from Windhelm or Riften sounding like that. Varden couldn't imagine anyone from either city would come after him in that garb unless they were part of some cult-

  
The second stranger drew his sword. “We will expose the falseness in their hearts by tearing out yours, Deceiver!”

  
“ _Tiid Klo Ul!_ ”

  
“We will offer him your...” The closest man was still drawing his mace as his words drawled to a stop. Varden ducked past them into the house, rubbing at his throat. When had he last Shouted? A month ago? Two? It'd been raining in the Reach and he was tired of being damp-

  
Varden kicked open the trunk with his ebony suit and wriggled into the cuirass. The trunk door hung open in the frozen time and he dug out the gauntlets before grabbing his twin swords. The trunk door started closing and he rushed back outside where the cultists were starting to inch forward.

  
It wasn't particularly honorable to kill them when they couldn't fight back. But then attacking an unarmed person at his home wasn't honorable either. Varden sliced off the nearest man's head, nicking the strange mask they wore. The blood was starting to spurt when he slashed through the other man's shoulder, burying the sword in his torso.

  
“...im your heart, Deceiv-! Ack!” The headless corpse flopped to the ground behind him. Varden helped the still living would-be assassin to the ground. He rolled him over and stepped on his chest.

  
“Who sent you?” The dying man sputtered blood instead of words. Varden pressed harder. “ _Who sent you_?”

  
The man gurgled and breathed no more. Varden yelled his frustration to the winds.

  
Checking their pockets turned up little. A few coins, some half-eaten food, a folded letter- Varden pulled out the letter and sat on the step to read it.

 

 

> _Board the Northern Maiden and take it to Windhelm to begin your search. Find the False Dragonborn._
> 
> _Return with word of your success and Miraak shall be most pleased._

 

  
“Thane? Thane Varden!”

  
“Gods, are you alright?!”

  
Varden squinted up toward Whiterun. Uthgerd and Gregor were running toward him, their faces pale as the snow. He looked down at his clothes - an ordinary farm tunic with ebony gauntlets and a cuirass: blood-flecked, but otherwise fine. Then he remembered the two bodies he'd left lying around and rolled his eyes. He should have done something about that.

  
Varden cleared his throat. “I'm fine.”

  
Gregor barely came to a stop, heaving heavily. Uthgerd clasped her hands on Varden's forearms, confirmed he was indeed 'fine', then drew her greatsword and stalked about the property for anything still living she could mutilate.

  
“Forgive me, Thane, I should have been here to protect you-”

  
“Gregor. I can protect myself.”

  
“The chickens!” Uthgerd called from the west side of the house. Varden pocketed the letter and ran over to join her.

  
They were all dead. There were feathers and blood everywhere... and those idiots had even trampled what few eggs were in the lean-to. Varden exhaled a long breath to let the frustration out. They came to his house and when they didn't find him... murdered his _chickens_? What were these people thinking? What message were they trying to send?

  
“Thane Varden, I'm sorry. I- I will buy more-”

  
“Uthgerd. Just-” Varden sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Yes, buy more. That will be fine.”

  
Varden shook his head and walked inside the house. It didn't look like they'd broken in, but then he and his companions did lock the door when they weren't within sight of it. Thank gods.

  
He looked down at the paper in his hands. Someone had tried to murder him. Someone who wasn't the Legion or the Stormcloaks. Someone new...

  
Varden walked over to the chest holding the rest of his armor and pulled it out. “I'm going to Windhelm.”

  
“I'll come with you-”

  
“Stay here.” He barked to Gregor.

  
The poor man looked ready to cry. Varden exhaled. He knew the housecarls were more protective of him of late. They were worried for his sanity as well as his health, especially after the attack on the lakeside manor.

  
“I need you here in case there's more of them. I'll be safe enough on my own.” He didn't acknowledge that he was a rather unmistakable figure, especially with the ebony armor. Word would get out that the Dragonborn had been seen on the roads, that he was alive and not quite as retired as the world believed. Then trouble would come.

  
“Windhelm, sir?” Uthgerd questioned.

  
She was a smart woman, he trusted her to pass the word around to the others that he was out on business. Oblivion, maybe they'd stop collectively pitying him if he went out and did something. He hadn't even slain a dragon in four months, and there were more than enough of those rampaging around the countryside. Varden swore the Companions were beginning to resent him for 'not doing his job' and leaving the monsters to mere mortals. Besides, battle had a way of refining a person down to their soul, helping them find their focus...

  
Yes, a little expedition could be just what the doctor ordered.

  
“They came through Windhelm from somewhere.” Varden elaborated. “Ship called the _Northern Maiden_ brought them here. I'm going to have a _talk_ with the captain.”

  
He pocketed ten centim coins and twenty decims, grabbed a loaf and steamed fish out of the 'kitchen' area, and walked out the door. Varden collected the two masks - he was right: a Nord and a Dunmer - before saddling Frost.

  
“When will you be back, Thane?”

  
“When I find this Miraak person.” Varden shouted over his shoulder. “And return the favor...”

* * *

  
“You there.” The sailors looked up from the longship's repairs to the strange figure boarding their ship. “You are the captain of the _Northern Maiden_?”

  
The Nord hammering at the mast looked over pensively. “Sure. Gjalund Salt-Sage. What can I do for you?”

  
The blood speckled chitin masks bounced on the ship's deck. Captain Salt-Sage gulped and stared at Varden. He was a nice person usually: more than a few of his friends and associates often confided he was a bit of a pushover, a little too eager to please. But he couldn't be lenient here. Especially not here. He had to make a statement, an example. No one went after the Dragonborn or those close to him without consequences.

  
“You brought these people to Windhelm?”

  
“Now- Now hold on-”

  
Varden grabbed the man by his collar and slammed him against the mast, knocking the hammer to the boards. Enough to shake him, not seriously hurt him. The ship's men rushed forward to intervene but the sound of partly drawn swords from the docks - the guards recognized him - stayed their hands. If he was lucky, they were too shocked that this was out of character for him to do something about him assaulting a Nord.

  
“Do you know who I am?” Varden growled to the captain.

  
Gjalund glanced down at the full ebony suit Varden was wearing and swallowed. “I- I'm guessing you're the- the- Dragonborn.”

  
Varden hauled the man up so he was barely standing on the balls of his feet. “I don't appreciate being attacked in my own home by madmen with swords. Madmen _you_ brought here.”

  
“I- I don't know what you're talking about-”

  
Varden lifted him a little higher. “Do you?”

  
“Gods, please- I didn't know they were going to kill anyone! I don't even know what we're doing here!” Gjalund cried out. By this time the other sailors slunk away to their duties, but kept an eye on the two men at the mast.

  
Varden let the man down but kept him pinned against the mast, glad the man was cooperating at last. The guards continued watching, but their hands drifted away from their weapons. Maybe they were loathe to step in because of his title. He was a Thane of Eastmarch after all. Still, he doubted that would protect him if he had to step up his threats again.

  
“Go on.”

  
“It's... it's hard to explain... I remember them coming on board, but then- then the next thing I remember we're in Windhelm and they're gone. Two days! None of us remember anything. That isn't right! There's been strange things happening on Solstheim, but this...”

  
“Solstheim?” Varden inquired. He'd heard something of the island before but it was only a word on a map to him. “Do you know someone named Miraak? He's the one who ordered them to kill me.”

  
“No. No I've never heard of anyone like that.”

  
“Then you're going to take me to Solstheim so I can find him.”

  
Gjalund's eyes grew so big Varden swore the man thought he'd heard 'I'm going to flay you alive and use your brains as fish bait'.

  
“I'm not going back there-!” Varden stared down at the captain until he shrank into the deck boards. “I... I suppose Adril could use more supplies...”

  
Varden let the man go and crossed his arms. “Those people tried to kill me. And you say they've been causing trouble on Solstheim. Take me there and I will take care of it. That will be better for your business than just ignoring the issue, yes?”

  
Gjalund opened his mouth to retort three times, but he relented at last, running his hands through his hair. “Alright. I'll take you there, but that's all.” Gjalund said, waving his hands emphatically. He barked a few orders to the men - also alarmed to learn their destination - and they scurried off for the warehouse.

  
“Just let me put in for some supplies to run, and we'll be off. Two or three hours.”

  
Varden nodded and donned his helmet before leaving the docks. He needed to speak with Calder, inform the housecarls that he might be staying on Solstheim longer than he'd anticipated. No doubt Calder would pass along what he'd been told to his uncle, but Varden didn't care about that. It was easier to tell Calder than write the housecarls and address the High Court: two birds with one stone.

  
Varden stopped at the gate to Windhelm and stared out to sea. Solstheim: what could possibly be going on out there?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I made the mistake of showing my brother Chapter I and he's demanding more already, lol
> 
> Comments and kudos appreciated! I like hearing what people thought was funny/interesting (or thoughts on where they think the plot is going), even if it's just short sentences. :)

Communicating with her self-named 'cult' was aggravating. The few that were intelligent enough to seek her out at her temple had little power in Tamriel. To make matters worse she found they operated on their own agendas if she left them alone for too long, all the while insisting it was for her glory. Miraak wondered if Daedra had the same issues but she refused to question Hermaeus Mora about it. Besides, she doubted he'd give her a straight answer.

  
Miraak pushed _Thoughts on the Stormcloak Rebellion_ back into the shelf with her fingertips. Blatant Cyrodiil propaganda with little to say on the most historical figure of the uprising. Useless.

  
On a hunch she walked the darkened rows looking for tax records. Three songs made mention of Whiterun awarding him a title upon slaying his first dragon. Titles meant taxes. Taxes meant a name and means of locating him.

  
The records were well-organized, although they gave no hints as to _which_ thane was the Dragonborn. The two most recently titled claimed it by birthright. The only oddities were two Redguards, three Imperials, and one elf: she wasn't looking for them. She was looking for a Nord, tall and fair, who probably left his finances to his servants but had mountains of coin. It was a shame these records didn't list descriptions with the names and addresses, or a simple portrait...

  
She sighed and collected all of Skyrim's recent tax records - _one_ of them would have the Dragonborn in its pages - carrying them back to the nook she supposed was her 'favorite'. The top of a shelf-wall where she could curl up and read undisturbed, while also keeping an eye on the first chapter of _Waking Dreams_.

  
Miraak pushed her mask up and flipped through the pages, muttering the names. The Dragonborn was the most prominent figure of the Stormcloak Rebellion, surely the High King would have taken advantage of that with a title to add to his rank. She held the lists in her lap: the Whiterun book on her left knee and the Windhelm one on her right, and the others on the floor around her.

  
None of the Nords overlapped.

  
She grimaced and set the Windhelm records down, reaching for the Falkreath book. One of the seekers had brought a few scribbled drafts of the Jarl there plying the Dragonborn with a title. No doubt for the prestige of having such a powerful man in his court. All the drafts merely had 'Dragonborn' in the opening address and a series of question marks. If they had even sent the letters she assumed they had a name, but the name was likely the last thing they needed. Unfortunately.

  
The Falkreath records were also useless.

  
Miraak leaned her head back against the twisting spire of books. Why was this man so hard to find when all of Skyrim talked about him? A _name_ even seemed too much to ask for. She studied the records again, hoping there was some misspelling or scrawled addition somewhere that she had missed, but there was nothing.

  
Another dead end.

  
A soft thump drew her attention down to _Waking Dreams_. Miraak shut the books quietly and leaned forward, keeping out of sight of the ground and staying still as a cat. There were two seekers at the 'entrance', prodding a prone suit of ebony armor. Miraak pulled her mask down to her chin and crept down from the nook.

  
A visitor. It was good to see that the paralysis runes had recharged over the years since they were last used...

_  
The air sizzled and the familiar shape of a man warped into Apocrypha. He was only on his feet for a second before the paralysis runes took effect._

_  
Miraak snapped_ Lost Legends _shut and tossed it onto a mound of other books that while still unwritten in Tamriel, were available to her as a 'resident' of Oblivion. She was trapped here, and she would be for eras: there was little point hiding the future-that-would-be-the-past from her._

_  
“I was beginning to think you were never coming.” She sighed and pushed the man over with her foot. His brows were furrowed like he was thinking very hard. That would be a first for him._

_  
“Don't bother struggling. You will remain paralyzed as long as you are in_ Waking Dreams _. I designed those runes myself.”_

_  
Quiet snorts from him as he continued disobeying her. He never could sit still. Impossible man..._

_  
“I suppose I should **thank you**.” Miraak chuckled under her breath. “You have ensured my immortality. I will return to Tamriel several generations from now. Long after you and the other priests have shriveled to demented husks of your current **unimpressive** selves, I will return in full. And I will be younger. Stronger. I will have ages to read every book in this arcane library and learn every past and future word of the Dragon Tongue.”_

_  
He seemed alarmed at that. Good._

_  
“So thank you. I will live longer than any other Nord in the pages of history.”_

_  
She was quiet then: the anger, the grief constricting her throat until she couldn't breathe. Not that she needed to breathe, being dead._

_  
She could make him pay for that. She could bring his world crashing down around his ears with four words. Those words might even drive him to end his own life: he was 'honorable' like that, but not honorable enough to kill her in a fair fight._

_  
She could tell him just what his cowardice had cost him._

_  
For the life of her - or whatever counted as ‘life’ in Apocrypha - she didn't know why she didn't._

_  
“Let me explain to you the gravity of what you've done. I suppose I have all the time in Oblivion to explain it to you.” Miraak paced the courtyard of_ Chapter I _like a tutor. She would leave that part of him alone - it didn't belong to Miraak. The rest of him was fair game._

_  
He wanted to believe he was a 'good' person. The protector of Skyrim - her Solstheim even now with her acolytes imprisoned in tombs - and the dov. How he loved the dov... He wanted to believe he'd done the right thing. He wanted accolades and a soothed conscience knowing that she was the bastard spawn of Hermaeus Mora and Molag Bal and he had saved everyone._

_  
She could corrupt his soul just as easily as Hermaeus Mora and by gods, she was going to find some enjoyment in dragging him down to the dirt with the rest of humanity._

_  
She could use the company._

_  
“The dragon priests teach that our gods are the dragons, and Alduin is their king. But the dragons have gods too- the same eight gods the 'common rabble' worship. Their dragon god of Time is Alduin's father, the father of all dragons. We call him 'bormahu'.”_

_  
She could see it there, the twitch of a frown in his eyes if not his lips. The disapproval. 'Blasphemy'. Her lips turned up in a smirk. He was nothing if not predictable. She supposed he was nothing then: she hadn't foreseen her murder._

_  
“He is my father, as he is Alduin’s and all the others. It was bormahu who sent me here to defeat the World-Eater as was prophesied.” Miraak explained. “Alduin spoke of the prophecy when he spared me. Even one as arrogant as he will not go against fate.”_

_  
“So was it arrogance or incompetence that drove you priests to kill me?” Miraak spat._

_  
It was both, she knew. It had to be both. Even Morokei was not so rigid that he would sacrifice all the dov for Alduin, but none of them would listen to her about the continued oppression of the Nords, the charging fire rune that was causing._

_  
They had killed her for having a dragon's soul, they would have done it twice over if they had known her plans._

_  
But was the man before her truly responsible for that? No. Guilty of following orders? Of never stopping to think, of letting their lies cloud his judgement? Yes. Murdering her in cold blood? Absolutely._

  
_She wanted to punish him for more than that, but some small thread of her soul still pitied him. He had been twisted and lied to at every turn, even by her. He should have come to expect it, really. They had used him, the priests played him like the misguided puppet he joked she thought he was._

_  
“You have killed a dragon. You must be punished for it.” Miraak said, bringing her attention back to the crumpled ruin of a man- at the height of his power but the lowest point of his life. “I am Dragonborn. I have the blood and soul of a dovah. There is no Daedric sorcery, no more than when one dovah kills another.”_

_  
“There didn't have to be a war. I could have prevented everything. I could have saved all mankind and the dov by defeating Alduin in Sovngarde. Alone. Quietly. I would have finished by the time...”_

_  
Her throat tightened again, and no amount of coaxing could make her tongue finish those words._

_  
It was pity then, and something else, that begged her to spare his soul as Hermaeus Mora had spared hers. But his heart, his love for Skyrim - Nords and dragons alike - she would crush that into dust with the truth._

_  
After a lifetime of being lied to he did deserve the truth, after all._

_  
“This is your punishment. When the fighting starts, and rumors of massacres and slain dragons and destroyed cities reaches Solstheim- When the Dragon Cult is only a hated memory and a curse upon our ruins, and the skulls of dragons adorn the halls of kings... know that I could have prevented all of it.”_

_  
She saw the making of a frown on his frozen face. The doubt in his muscles but the fear in his eyes that she was telling the truth. In the thirty years he'd known her, she had never lied about the future._

_  
That would haunt him for of the rest of his miserable life._

_  
“There will come a day when Tongues come to Solstheim, looking for the Dragonborn, and **you** will explain to them why I am not there to help them. Send them to me, and I will do what I can to keep the Wheel turning until I return.”_

_  
A plot had already begun forming in her mind, a way to fulfill the prophecy and return to Tamriel. It required an Elder Scroll, and dozens of dragon souls, but it was possible. She already had the incantation that would pluck Alduin from 'this' time and set him aloft in the currents. As an aspect of the Time God, he would latch onto what he thought was the same time but was actually the future. A time similar enough to the one he left to deceive him, in his haste, a time eras from now..._

_  
A time the man at her feet would never see._

_  
Miraak sighed and clasped her hands behind her back. “The book leading to Tamriel is hidden, since I read the Black Book first and cannot return.” She turned and waved her hands to the seekers. They tolerated her ordering them around. A few more uses of Bend Will and she was sure she could wrench even the high seekers to her side, so long as she didn't act against Hermaeus Mora directly. The time for that would come later: **much** later._

_  
The two spirits loomed over the priest and held their arms out, using their magic to drain his magic, his strength... and his life. His breathing grew shallow: quick, gasping motions as he could do nothing to stop them. She disliked using others to kill her foes, but she didn't trust herself at the moment. The wound was still too fresh._

_  
“The next time we meet, I will kill you myself.” Miraak commented in disgust. “I can tolerate your treachery. I am a dragon, such things are expected. I cannot tolerate your incompetence.”_

_  
She watched him die, his paralyzed face contorting as the high seekers drained him of life. He had watched her bleed out on her sanctum's floor, her blood drenching his red robes. She didn't doubt that she had died in his arms and remained there for some time. He was an insufferable romantic and from nobility besides. It seemed fitting that she watch him breathe his last in Apocrypha, even if the affair was joyless for her._

_  
“Leave the Book in my sanctum.” She said. One last instruction for a man that refused to obey her. “That is, after all, where I found it...”_

_  
His chest stilled and the seekers withdrew. It took a moment but his body warped out of Apocrypha. He was no doubt checking his body, crying, thanking the gods that he was in fact alive._

_  
A small courtesy that, no matter how 'romantic' or 'compassionate' he thought he was, he had stolen from her..._

 

  
The seekers backed away as she approached. Miraak pushed her foot underneath the shoulder pauldron and rolled the stranger over. There was a body inside there, no doubt still alive as it hadn't disappeared but... She unlatched the helmet and pried it off, revealing an irate High Elf.

  
“It's been some time since an elf's passed through here...” She mused, running her hand through his hair and half-hauling him upright. The elf grimaced and glared at her. Miraak smirked behind her mask.

  
Truthfully, she couldn't remember a time when a stranger used _Waking Dreams_ to reach Apocrypha. There had been no visitors at all since the Dwemer disappeared. No one else was foolhardy enough to brave her temple, or her draugr servants.

  
Her fingers brushed against his forehead and she shivered. Miraak stopped, frowned. There was power in that touch, a giddy tremor to her hand as the blood quickened. It couldn't be- but then who else could have sought out her temple and reached the Black Book so quickly?

  
Miraak pried off her glove and gripped his chin with her bare hand, turning his head from side to side and holding a fingertip on his pulse. He kept trying to look down at her hand. She wondered if he might bite it if he had control of his body. He only tolerated being inspected like a slave at auction because of the paralyzation. She could see the murder in his eyes and the quick breath of his nose. She only needed a moment, to feel the blood running in his veins. To test it.

  
She could feel it there, the urge to fight. Kill. Maim. Dominate. _Win_. The same whispers growing louder in her blood-

  
Miraak flicked her fingers, letting a seeker catch him before he fell too far. She circled the Dragonborn, this... she frowned and recalled the name from the records. Varden Losselancar. An elf. An _elf_. She chuckled and clapped her hands together. Things couldn't have changed much since her day- knowing how tightly the Nords clung to their legends an Altmeri Dragonborn must have them frothing at the mouth.

  
He cut an odd figure, and certainly not the one the bards agreed on but there was no denying the broil of souls under his skin. Pale copper skin under a suit of ebony two sizes too large for his frame. Angry golden eyes; chin, cheekbones and nose that could have been cut from the granite monoliths. A crop of white hair slicked back to a ponytail, disheveled and filthy from battle.

  
This wasn't the Nordic vision Skyrim wanted, but the more she studied him the more she preferred the reality. Dragonborns were not some drunkard filled with bloodlust gifted enough to slay a few wyrms. Dragonborns were warlords. Conquerors. Emperors.

  
He looked the part. Perhaps that was why they feared him.

  
Miraak picked at a netting of ash-covered cobwebs in his hair, grinning as he growled at the touch. She had left the book in the depths of her temple, and her servants had continued to guard it even after her removal. Had he fought through her temple's guardians to reach the Black Book? And opened it _there_? Such arrogance.

  
She dusted the web and ash off her hand and walked back toward the sea between her and her tower. It was convenient that he had shown himself to her, but she had no interest in doing the same. Knowledge was power, and she wasn't so foolish as to gloat and reveal her whole plan to someone with the same coiled rage as her.

  
“Send him back to wherever he came from.” Miraak suddenly wheeled, basking in the way her robes swirled around her and held his _full_ attention. “I look forward to our next meeting in Tamriel.”

  
The seekers ensnared him and showered magic down, but those gold eyes stayed locked on her mask. Miraak stopped and returned the gaze. It seemed only fitting...

  
A moment later he faded. She suspected he would wake up seething, screaming, enraged at coming so close and being sent away.

  
That would be her reaction.

  
Miraak hummed and called Sahrotaar. She would instruct the cult to monitor him, now that she had an identity for them. Her shoulders felt lighter knowing there was one less loose end to worry about. This Varden could wait until she returned to Tamriel. Now she could focus on breaking out of Hermaeus Mora's grip and being a free woman again. Her blood quickened at the thought.


	3. Chapter 3

Varden flipped the knife over in his hand. One rotation. Two. One again. Three-

The knife flew and buried itself in the wall between his feet. He heard the proprietor stop wiping the counter and he didn’t have to look to see the disgusted frown on that mer’s face. Varden ignored him, watching the knife’s handle quiver until he couldn’t tell if it was moving or not. He bent forward and retrieved it, leaning back onto the creaking chair’s back legs and beginning the cycle again.

"You’re going to dull that blade." Teldryn commented, his chitin helmet never moving.

"When I _want_ your opinion, I’ll ask for it."

He didn't have time for this, this... Miraak priest. The connection with Apocrypha was intriguing but he had more important matters to attend to back in Skyrim. He had to get back to Heljarchen, to his schedule, before things got out of hand. This was supposed to be easy: go to Solstheim, find this Miraak person who was causing problems, 'deal with them', suffer the ire of the ungrateful people, then go home. Now there was- there were rumors of assassination plots on the First Councilor (who reminded him too much of Balgruuf to refuse), a haunted mine, this aggravating Telvanni wizard making insinuations about his willpower and these bewildering Skald - Skaal - people.

And everywhere, the cultists. The 'All-Maker' Stones that Miraak was desecrating. The bewitched people forced to work against their will.

The cultists accused him of not being Dragonborn - where had these people _been_ the past three years? Everyone of import knew who and what he was, even if the Nords muttered how it 'wasn't right' that he had the blood of dragons and the skin of an Altmer.

He was a dragon, he required neither their approval or consent. He just wanted to be left alone.

He supposed that was why this priest was so infuriating. He had been inspected and dismissed ( _dismissed!_ ) like a servant or a- a _child_ that wandered into the master's study. An interesting bauble worthy of a minute's study, nothing more. After all the irritating grievances he'd suffered - those masked brutes had murdered his _chickens_ \- this Miraak decided he wasn't worth the effort.

He'd damned well _cheated_ : trapping the pages of that Black Book with paralysis. Varden felt like a novice for missing the signs, but the glowing green spell was only a half shade lighter than the actual Daedric words. Why should he have expected a dragon priest to booby-trap a Daedric artifact? How was that even _possible?_

His opponent was intelligent, he grudgingly admitted. And alive, which was...

Varden huffed as his head ached with the aftereffects of flin and thinking in circles. He buried the knife in the wall again, jerking it out and tossing it in the air. The hand that left only the memory of marks on his chin was a human hand. Nord, no doubt. But a _living_ hand, not the desiccated corpse of the priests he had fought before.

As much as he hated the curiosity welling up inside him, mystery was an itch that hadn't been scratched in ages.

A living dragon priest that could control people in their sleep. He grimaced, remembering every morning spent in this ash-pit began with him toiling like a common Dunmer at that damnable stone. He couldn't even figure out what it was for, only that touching any part of it rendered him dumb and subservient.

This priest would pay for that if nothing else. He'd humiliated Varden. After spending the better part of three days with this spellsword and the annoying tribal woman - gods, he would have dismissed her without pay were she in his employ - they'd cleared out that disgusting tomb. He'd expected to exorcise the priest and 'save' Solstheim but instead he got a book.

Varden glared down at the black tome, knowing Miraak was somewhere in those pages but out of reach. The bastard was gone by the time he recovered enough to slap the page again, much to Teldryn and the woman's disgruntlement. How in Oblivion was he supposed to fight when he couldn't move? He couldn't even talk.

He needed more information, but he'd be damned if he spent another minute in this ashpit.

Varden snapped the chair's legs down to the stone floor and fished out one of the garnet’s he’d found in the temple. Teldryn palmed it and raised it to his goggles.

"You’re dismissed." Teldryn nodded and tucked the garnet in a pocket, then his hands under his arms. Varden dropped a small purse of coins on the innkeeper’s table on his way out. "For the mess."

Everything else he owned he had on him, and with Teldryn paid he didn’t have anything else keeping him here. He had to get home, before his schedule slipped further than it already had.

He stormed up the stairs and threw the door open, startling a guar yearling. It ran off down the street and the disheveled denizens glared at him when it upended a crate of ash yams, still wailing its head off. He felt hotheaded - his blood hadn't boiled like this in months and it couldn't be healthy for him. He needed to kill something: where was a wyrm when he wanted one?

As if on cue a great red-bellied dragon roared. The guar wasn't the only one screaming after that.

Varden laughed and raced up the steps to the bulwark, barely noticing the guards rushing past him. It was a strange beast, looking more like a flattened insect than a lizard. It was strong though, he could feel it. Exactly what he needed.

" _Gaan Lah Haas!_ "

Four of the Redoran Guard dropped to their knees clutching their chests. So this dragon knew Drain Vitality too? Solstheim was full of surprises.

" _Joor Zah Frul!_ " Varden shouted. The beast roared and wheeled, crippled by the thought of mortality. It crashed into the desolate landscape west of the bulwark. Varden grinned and leapt down to where it was shaking ash out of its scales.

"Dovah," Varden called, unsheathing his swords. "Hi yah dinok daar sul?"

"Dovahkiin. Dovah faas hi _ni!_ " The dragon roared. "Krif! Koraav wo los mul arhk wo los _dilon!_ "

It snapped its jaws at him and he wheeled out of the way. Powerful _and_ arrogant: someone was answering prayers today. The dragon tried to lift itself into the air but flopped back on the ground. Varden moved in.

He danced underneath it, slashing at tendons and claws then darting out of the way. The Redoran Guard had finally gotten off their laurels and assisted with arrows. The dragon roared and leapt into the air, wheeling away behind the lava columns. Varden shot a thunderbolt at its wing and a piercing howl rang out across the shores. He laughed and flicked blood off his arms before racing up the columns, leaping up the hexagons two then four at a time.

The ground shook as the dragon crashed into the ash and pines. Angry bellows from the dragon made his blood race. Gods, he needed this. Varden would prefer to drag it out - dragons were one of the few creatures he could truly duel with - but he doubted the guard or the dragon would give him the chance. It didn't matter: winning its soul would be satisfying after an aggravatingly unproductive trip.

He crested the bulwark and watched the dragon shake bark and ash from its head. The dragon caught sight of him and roared.

" _Gaan Lah Haas!_ "

" _Feim Zii!_ "

The vampiric shout passed through him and over him, purple embers striking his body and slowing before passing through him. The dragon snorted, then charged. Varden twirled his swords and planted his feet, waiting. Waiting-

" _Wuld Nah Kest!_ "

The dragon snarled as the ebony swords sliced through scale and flesh and bone. Varden spun off a tree and stopped to watch. The dragon's wing had been shorn off halfway to the elbow, clean for a moment, then blood spilled out of the gash down its middle. The dragon lowed, sank to the ground, and spent its final moments fighting to breathe on one lung.

Varden laid a hand on its side, feeling the life slip away as the ash soaked up the black blood. It was a proud thing, and to see it struggling like this was heart-wrenching. Its chest rattled and the great beast sank into the sand.

He sighed, trying to submerge bad memories. He pulled out a rag and cleaned up his swords. This was supposed to put him at ease, to help him calm down, not make things worse. Where was the dragon's soul? Sometimes the soul was late in coming but this was getting ridiculous.

The ash scattered as the dragon's body began melting. Varden exhaled, waiting for the euphoria to begin. He would go home and prepare for his meeting in Riften, maybe spruce up Heljarchen if he had time. After Riften... maybe he'd hunt a dragon, or see how the Arch-Mage was faring. Just something to keep his mind off the past.

Varden looked around. The white-gold light of the dragon's soul was not draining into him, it was draining...He spied faded green robes adorned with golden armor pieces, and a golden tentacled mask. All around the dragon priest, the gold tendrils of the dragon's soul.

Dragonborn. The priest was Dragonborn like him.

That complicated things. 

* * *

 

She appeared on the basalt column cliff overlooking the odd buildings and the sea. The Dunmer town below echoed with the battle's aftermath. She could see the Beast Stone glowing on the beach. A dead dragon lay at her feet.

The other Dragonborn - Varden - was wiping his swords on a rag near the dragon's wings. He looked over at the carcass, no doubt wondering why it was taking so long for the soul to come to him. He still hadn't seen her.

Miraak smiled and laid her hand on the dragon's head. She could barely feel anything and her vision was blurred, but all that mattered was the dragon's soul. Its skin glowed and swirled around her, a low boom scattering the ash.

 _Now_ Varden looked around, bewildered that the soul wasn't coming to him. His eyes locked on her mask and she could read the thoughts spinning in his head. His eyes widened after a moment. She grinned as a shiver ran up her spine.

He knew. She was Dragonborn. And she was stronger.

If her hair were free she would have flicked it over her shoulders triumphantly.

"It takes a strong will to command a dragon's soul." His eyes burned into her mask. Miraak chuckled. "Perhaps you aren't as powerful as you think-"

His fingers round her neck cut off the rest of her words. She swallowed, a shiver running down her spine as his thumbs pressed against her throat. The fury in his eyes, his hands: he hadn't been this enraged in years, she could feel it. Miraak laughed, coughed.

"Shut your mouth, if you want to keep using it." Varden hissed.

"Does it frighten you, Dovahkiin..." She shivered as the soul finished coming to her. "That I'm not afraid of you?" Miraak whispered.

The only answer she had was the wind and tightening, shaking fingers.

Solstheim slipped away in an instant and Miraak was left standing in Apocrypha. Kruziikrel shifted behind her, nipping at its elbow before staring lazily at its mistress. Miraak pulled her mask off and hood down, slicking loose hair behind her ears then covering her face again. She had almost forgotten the rush of devouring a new soul, the giddy fire in her veins that made her feel she could fly.

Miraak rubbed at her throat, wincing at the phantom fingerprints in her skin. The sensations of the phantom were reduced, not eliminated. She focused on the growing bruises, easing the aggravated veins and returning her skin to normal.

That was worrying, that he'd been able to mark her through the apparition. His will was stronger than she'd thought. Still, so long as she didn't goad him too far, she doubted he would notice. Her will was stronger than his. He simply caught her off-guard, that was all.

She hummed and collected a few more books to pass the time. She wondered how long it would be before she ran into him again at a kill, what he might try to do next time. This dovah's soul was enough to take her to the mainland, she could feel it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dovah, hi yah dinok daar sul? -- Dragon, you seek death this day?  
> Dovahkiin. Dovah faas hi ni! -- Dragonborn. I fear you not!  
> Krif! Koraav wo los mul arhk wo los dilon! -- (Let us) Fight! See who is strong and who is dead!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeyyy... i'm not deeaaad... I feel like it tho, my schedule's kicking my butt...

Varden returned to Skyrim but like a cursed septim that damned priest followed no matter where he went. Whether Miraak showed up or graciously refrained from taking his kills was random, and he'd spent days trying to discern the reasoning behind the other Dragonborn’s appearances.

  
There was no reason. Or if there was, it was only to infuriate him.

  
“You're going to get rockjoint, you keep gripping that bottle like that.” Delphine commented, pointed at the ale in his hand.

  
Varden snorted but released his death grip on the glass nonetheless. “The bottle will break first...”

  
“What's eating at you? You're not usually like this.”

  
“Trouble in Morrowind...” Varden muttered, taking a swig of the ale.

  
The way he was feeling, he wished she would leave. She did need to train those new recruits, and there had been Thalmor sighted on the roads again. There were more important things for the Blades Grandmaster to be doing than babysitting an eleventy-seven year old Altmer. Besides, he'd only come to Sky Haven as a courtesy, to show that he was still alive and not entirely upset with her.

  
Delphine sat down opposite him, folding her arms on the longtable and waiting for him to elaborate. Varden chuckled; she never could take a hint, but he supposed that was why he liked her. Well, tolerated her. Most days.

  
“Is this about those people that tried to kill you?”

  
“After a fashion...” He sighed.

He shouldn't be surprised she'd heard of that, not after two months. Of course, she was one of the few people he could talk about dragon business with; it was useful now and then to have someone to bounce ideas off of. Besides, she was almost as good at finding secrets as the Thalmor. Delphine would find out eventually.

  
“You're aware of the Dragon Cult?”

  
She nodded. “An old order that used to worship dragons. Not too different from the Greybeards but more widespread, more violent.”

  
“Yes, well, they were far from pacifists.” Varden said, drinking from the ale again before setting it aside. “Their priests were powerful Tongues, and their high priests still survive in their fanes as draugr.”

  
“The masks?” Delphine asked. Varden nodded. The Blades had seen one or two of the Dragon Priest masks, and Esbern especially had been enthralled with them. It was ego stroking to have someone actually realize the worth of his trophies.

  
“Well, it appears Solstheim's nightmares stem from a dragon priest there, or rather in Apocrypha.”

  
“Apocrypha?” Delphine frowned.

  
Esbern poked his head out from the library. “What about Apocrypha?”

  
Delphine exhaled through clenched teeth as the elderly Nord joined them at the table.

  
“There's a dragon priest there, causing problems.” Varden said. He kept the fact that Miraak was dragonborn to himself; he wasn't sure how they'd react to that.

  
Delphine brushed the tabletop of imaginary dust motes. “One of you want to explain where Apocrypha is?”

  
Esbern's eyes lit up-

  
“Oblivion.” Varden interrupted, catching the irritated glances Delphine was giving the Loremaster. “Hermaeus Mora's realm. You get there by reading his Black Books.”

  
“Books? With Daedra?”

  
“The entire realm is a library, Delphine, filled with valuable texts from all eras - even future ones.”

  
She chuckled and leaned back in her chair. “Sounds like your kind of place, Esbern.”

  
Varden nodded. He hadn't thought too much about it thanks to Miraak's newfound obsession with antagonizing him, but Esbern might enjoy a trip to Apocrypha. Oblivion, the man would probably enjoy stuffing a large sack full of the 'learnings' in the twisted library.

  
“I am very interested in the books the Prince of Knowledge keeps there. That is why I will never go. Some knowledge comes with too high a cost.”

  
Varden shifted uncomfortably. “Well... perhaps I could bring you back something.”

  
He took another sip and kept his gaze low. Perhaps he should have expected Esbern's answer but he thought the man would be on his side. He knew all Delphine heard was 'Oblivion' and... Varden caught Delphine staring a hole into his forehead and sighed.

  
“If this library's in Oblivion I don't like the idea of you going there. It could be dangerous.”

  
“Well then it's settled.” Varden said, smiling with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “I'll just leave the people of Solstheim to their nightmares because a Daedroth's servant is involved and I've never killed one of those before.”

  
Delphine stood up and leaned over the table. “Varden. Daedra are dangerous-”

  
“Dragons are dangerous. I'm not a child, Delphine: I can handle myself.”

  
“Because you're the Dragonborn. My concern is-”

  
Varden sighed.

  
“That this is some trap so the Daedra can force you into working for them.”

  
Varden forced himself to only glare at her. Obviously that had occurred to him. He had had several 'propositions' and dealings with Daedra before and he prided himself on never involving himself with their business.

  
Esbern scratched his chin and glanced toward the library. Delphine refused to sit down until she'd gotten an answer. Varden rolled his eyes.

  
“Because I've never outwitted a Daedroth before.”

  
“Varden-”

  
“I can handle myself, Delphine. I just need a little time away from the situation to think things through, come up with a plan and I'll settle this the usual way.” Varden scoffed and took his ale. “Of course it'd be easier if I knew more about this 'Miraak'.”

  
Esbern frowned and retreated to the library. “I will see what I can find for you, Dragonborn.”

  
Varden gave a short bow to no one in particular and made for the entrance-

  
“Varden.” Delphine followed him to the stairs. Varden rolled his eyes and leaned against the corridor's wall. He didn't want to have this conversation- for both their sakes. They never could argue politics peaceably. She was a Blade, 'dyed in the wool' as they said in Daggerfall. While the Empire was conveniently disloyal to them, he knew the woman still felt some shred of... something, was due to the Mede dynasty.

  
They had of course discussed his 'inevitable' ascension after the Dominion was dealt with; she seemed to hope the Ruby Throne would be miraculously vacant when the time came. Varden was not so optimistic, but there was little he could do with the Morag Tong disbanded and the Dark Brotherhood eradicated. He'd never been sure he even had the _stomach_ to assassinate the Medes, especially after the war...

  
Delphine sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “You're our Dragonborn. If this dragon priest continues causing you problems, let us know. We'll help.”

  
“And to what do I owe this sudden generosity to?” Varden raised an eyebrow. He suspected it was Esbern's idea, or perhaps her conscience.

  
“Varden. You solve crises, you don't create them. You killed Alduin and Paarthurnax, handled that vampire uprising a year ago. Ended the war.”

  
“'Ended'?” Varden asked quietly.

  
“We can't change the past, Varden, but the Blades will stand by you for the future. We have your back. If you want help, just ask.”

  
“A Black Book only has room for one reader at a time. Unless you suggest letting this Miraak come here, I will be fighting him alone.”

  
She was quiet then, scheming something no doubt. Varden had gone alone to Sovngarde, and he hadn't thought to involve the Blades in the assault on Castle Volkihar- there hadn't been time. He'd gotten an earful afterwards, but the argument they'd had after the Battle of Solitude was the worst by far.

  
That had been eight months ago. It took Esbern and the recruits seeking him out at Heljarchen to convince Varden he was still welcome at Sky Haven. Even now, he wasn't sure anyone here was 'happy' to see him... and he was getting tired of cold welcomes.

  
“Please be careful.” Delphine pleaded. “We can't lose you.”

  
“Oh, always.”

  
Delphine patted him on the shoulder and let him leave. Varden passed under Reman's effigy and into the sunlight. He just needed time to think, to figure out a way to get to this Miraak without aligning himself with the Daedra. There had to be a way, he just hadn't found it yet.


	5. Chapter 5

She was getting stronger. Miraak flexed her fingers and waited for the soul to come to her. Only a few more and she could break free of Apocrypha, of Hermaeus Mora and return to Tamriel. She would answer to no man or god, and that was a power greater than anything Apocrypha could offer.

  
Varden was her only audience again. She knew it riled him to see her claim the souls he'd killed. She knew the rage of being patronized, and had she dealt with Varden when she were younger, she would have treated him very differently, almost as equals.

  
But where was the fun in that?

  
The time was coming soon when she would have to treat with him one way or another. They were like two great warships - the flagships of their fleets - caught in a maelstrom. Eventually - inevitably - they would collide, and whether either of them would survive that was up to greater powers to decide.

  
She supposed ships were a fitting metaphor, given her captor was Hermaeus Mora. He had a certain affinity for everything aquatic, the murky depths of knowledge and time and fate. Even his realm was an endless ocean dotted with small islands of books and scrolls. She knew: she had flown as far as Sahrotaar could take her in every direction.

  
Perhaps his disposition toward the deep was why the dragons that fell under his sway resembled the Maomer's mounts more than Alduin. Sahrotaar and his kin did look vaguely like sea serpents, from what few illustrations she'd seen of them...

  
“Answer me this...”

  
Miraak blinked, realizing she was lost in thought again; ignoring her audience.

  
“If you aren't afraid of me, why try to have me killed?” He must have noticed the faint tilting of her head because Varden continued, leaning heavily on his sword. “Your 'cultists'? I believe they said they would 'offer you my heart upon your arrival'. It was hard to make out what the man was saying since he was choking on his own blood at the time.” Varden held up his hands in mock apology. “Forgive me if I took that literally, but I prefer my lovers to be from _this_ era, and female.”

  
Miraak clenched her jaw, grateful the mask hid the anger in her face. “If I wanted you dead, we would not be having this discussion.” She said, forcing herself to present the rage in her voice as confidence, to say the words with as much warmth as Atmora. “Their orders were to _locate_ you. I would punish them for their impertinence but it seems you have already done so.”

  
Truthfully, any method Varden had used would have been quicker and more merciful than what she would have done.

  
“You expect me to believe that-?”

  
“I _expect_... we will meet again soon. Until then, Dragonborn.”

  
The smoky mountain faded and the colorless green of Apocrypha surrounded her. She stood still as a statue for so long that even Relonikiv sat up and took notice.

  
Miraak snatched up the nearest book and hurled it off the tower.

  
“ ** _Idiots_** ** _!_** ”

  
Kruziikrel sat up and chuffed at Relonikiv as the books started flying. The two dragons silently took to the air (as silently as dragons can) and left their master to her tower. A wise decision, as seconds later she began using her Voice. Sahrotaar waited for her to turn away from him before descending to Chapter VI.

 

 _  
A sharp, piercing pain shot through her body and Miraak stumbled into_ Waking Dreams _' pedestal at the summit_ _of Apocrypha. Her hands flew to her chest and her back arched forward, trying to escape the pain. The source felt like her back, but also her chest and there was no explanation for either._

_  
Her eyes shot up to the Black Book. She could escape back to Solstheim, find a doctor and figure out what was wrong-_

_  
Tentacles shot up from the pool around_ Waking Dreams _' pedestal and hoisted her in the air. One pierced her back in the pain's epicenter and she screamed as it tore through her. The rest held her wrists and ankles taut while the first wriggled incessantly in the air above her. She gasped for air and struggled._

_  
Was this Hermaeus Mora's doing? But... why? Why would he betray her like this? She was his servant, she was powerful, she had a destiny to fulfill! What could he gain by killing her now?_

_  
She had to get_ _down. She had to get back to Tamriel before this killed her. Miraak inhaled to Shout-_

_  
A growl more akin to thunder rumbled above her. “Do not speak.”_

_  
More out of shock than obedience, she complied._

_  
It was frightening, to see the Daedroth's limb lazily twisting out of her chest. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back. He wouldn't kill her. This made no sense- this was some sort of nightmare, a punishment of Vaermina for siding with that Daedroth's arch-nemesis. Yes, that was it._

_  
She would wake up in her temple chambers, clutching her chest and nauseous per usual, appalled at her imagination's darker turn. Miraak focused on her future, her immediate future was easier to picture. Jodurr was returning today; she would tell him what she'd learned last night and then he would be hers for eternity. He would tell her everything about Skuldafn and what secrets Alduin kept there..._

_  
The tentacle in her chest withdrew, leaving slimy goo that coated the hole it had left - or must have left but Miraak could not feel or see anything other than a damp spot over her heart. The pain had stopped, and the other tentacles deposited her on the floor of Apocrypha's summit._ Waking Dreams _was nowhere to be found._

_  
“Explain yourself, Daedroth. Why did you attack me just now?”_

_  
“There is nothing to explain, beyond the simple truth...” Hermaeus Mora's drawl was even more pronounced than usual. “That you are dead.”_

  
_Her hands went to her chest then settled against her waist where she wrung her hands. She couldn't believe what he was saying, even if he was the Prince of Fate. She couldn't be dead. She was only forty-seven- she hadn't found the secret to defeating Alduin yet. She had a **destiny**. She was so close to fulfilling it too- she need only wait until Jodurr returned from Windhelm and once he knew he would tell her everything, 'honor' or not._

_  
She couldn't be dead. She **wasn't** dead-_

_  
“But I'm **alive**.” Miraak insisted._

_  
“For now. I... have saved your life, so long as you remain in Apocrypha. The path to Tamriel is... hidden, for your safety.”_

_  
“I don't understand-”_

_  
“It's best you don't.” Hermaeus Mora sighed. “Understand that you will remain here until I have no further use for you.”_

_  
“What further use can I be here?” Miraak asked sharply, gesturing to the small island in Apocrypha's vast oceans that was_ Waking Dreams _. She was more valuable to him in Solstheim, they both knew this._

_  
Quiet laughter echoed down from the skies._

_  
“Prophecy.”_

_  
Then he said no more and the darker shade of puce dissipated from the starless skies. Obviously, he spoke of the Dragonborn prophecy, her destiny with Alduin. A destiny it appeared, not even death could halt..._

 

  
Miraak sank to the ground amidst fluttering papers. She did not feel better per se: her head pounded and her chest was heaving. The fire in her blood was down to embers, so perhaps that was enough.

  
She pulled the mask back to breathe easier. _Varden_ was the one that defeated Alduin. She'd had her Voice thirty years. the elf barely had his thirty _weeks_ when he fought the World-Eater in Sovngarde. So far, Hermaeus Mora had been gracious in allowing her to stay in Apocrypha, but she knew his so-called 'benevolence' was not infinite. When he felt she had outlived her usefulness, he would kill her.

  
And given that the Daedroth was eerily acquiescent of the Last Dragonborn, her time in Apocrypha was coming to an end. Now was _not_ the time to fight Varden.

  
Miraak crossed her legs and slowed her breathing, focusing on the Sleepers in Solstheim. They could set a playdate for later: for now, she had work to do.


	6. Chapter 6

“ _Yol Toor Shul!_ ”

  
The dragon and Dragonborn's Thu'um collided with a light that outshone Magnus. Three of the Blades shot arrows at the distracted beast while the fourth shot shock magic into its wings. Varden circled it, keeping his sword in its face so it focused on him.

  
In the corner of his eye he saw Erik jump on its back and scurry toward its neck. The dragon snarled and turned to snap at him-

  
Varden leapt forward and buried his sword in its eye. The dragon reared its head roaring. Varden dragged it down to earth and pressed it in deeper. Someone behind him slashed at an artery in its wing and the dragon crumpled.

  
They backed away out of reach as it thrashed around, lowing piteously and gasping for breath. Varden almost wanted to comfort it in its last moments. Death was a foreign concept to dragons; they did not meet that end well. Still, the threat that it would take him with it to the grave made him keep his distance.

  
The dragon's soul glowed and flowed toward him, but Varden didn't feel that familiar euphoria. He gripped the hilts tighter and refused to turn around.

  
That damn priest showed up at damned near every dragon he slew now, ever since he'd mentioned the cultists' attempted assassination. They no longer spoke to each other beyond the acknowledgement of each other's presence. It reminded him of a business transaction: he killed the dragons, Miraak took the souls.

  
Was he frightened on some level, of what Varden would do when they finally met on equal ground? Was that the source of this newfound urgency? The soul finished its journey and he heard the tell-tale warp of Miraak returning to Apocrypha. Good riddance...

  
“Varden, what...?”

  
Varden winced. He had forgotten the Blades.

  
 Delphine stared at him. “Varden, what is going on?”

  
He shook his head and flicked the blood off his swords before pushing past the recruits down the slope. “I do not want to talk about this-”

  
“Varden! _What_ is going on?” Delphine demanded, grabbing his wrist.

  
Varden snapped his arm away angrily. He didn't have time to explain this- He had to be in Solitude then the Reach by sundown, and it was past midday already. He’d lingered here with this dragon hunt too long, he never should have offered to accompany them but the chance of claiming a soul for _himself_ this time-

  
“Was that was Miraak?” Delphine inquired. But of course she would make the right guesses. Varden's ears began to burn and his fists shook at the mention of the priest. “ _He_ took the dragon's soul? How?”

  
“ _Because he's dragonborn!_ Do I have to tell you everything?!”

  
The words reverberated off his helmet and echoed in the crannies of the rock canyons. He’d let the Voice seep into his words, he hadn’t thought he was that angry...

  
The blood drained from Delphine’s face. “Varden, you didn't tell us this priest was dragonborn-”

  
“And why should I?” Varden snapped. “I told you I can handle it! I just need time. I need time to think without him _ruining everything_ _!_ ”

  
He stormed off down the path toward the mounts, leaving Delphine with the bewildered Blades recruits and Esbern.

  
“No- stay. Grab what you can. Drink some potions- _Varden!_ ”

  
He ignored her. Insufferable woman. Varden tugged the helmet off his head, hoping the cool air would help calm him down. Where was Snow? That damn horse was skittish as a rabbit even on the best days and might as well be halfway to the tundra by now.

  
Delphine caught herself on his arm. “Varden, you are our dragonborn-”

  
“Do not _patronize_ me!” He jerked away from her, hot tears in his eyes. “You think I don't know what will happen if Skyrim learns they could have an ancient _Nord_ Dragonborn instead of me?”

  
“We will _not_ let that happen.”

  
“You and what army, Delphine?!”

  
“We don't need an army, Varden. We just need men in the right place at the right times.” She sighed and wiped her brow, looking east before turning back to him. “I told you once; you give the word and we'll take the children south. That offer still stands.”

  
“That would protect them from the Stormcloaks, Delphine, not from...” Varden shook his head and leaned against a boulder. Gods, how did he explain to her?

  
He'd met her the first week he came to Skyrim; she had been there with him through it all. She had been with him at Kynesgrove, talked through the night with Esbern about Alduin. She’d been his first bladesmaster, and pointed him to Chief Burguk when he’d learned all she could teach him. Delphine encouraged him to join the Dawnguard after the attack on Honeyside; she'd helped Iona watch Blaise and Sofie that first fortnight. She'd listened to countless late-night debates about the war and what he should do, if anything.

  
She knew him, better than most in Skyrim. She knew he'd never been truly afraid of losing to anyone before, not even the World-Eater or a Vampire Lord bent on destroying the sun. That was what made this confession so much harder to make...

  
“I can't win this...” Varden admitted at last. “He's stronger than I am. That's how he can take the souls. He's stronger than me, and damn it Delphine, I can't see a way out of this.”

  
Everything he'd worked for, everything he'd accomplished, the people he’d sworn to protect, the people that had given their lives to protect him...

  
“And even if he does weaken coming to Tamriel, I don't know that it would be enough. And he's only getting stronger...”

  
“Then we'll meet him where he lands and fire everything we've got. Varden...” Delphine laid a hand on his shoulder and leaned in so close he thought she was going to hug him. “We will do _whatever_ it takes.”

  
A shiver ran down his spine. _Whatever it takes..._

  
“Do you mean that?” Varden asked quietly. “Do you know what you're saying?”

  
“We're here for you, Varden. That's never going to change.”

  
“Delphine.” He stopped and looked her in the eyes; studied her face as he said the words. “The only way I have a chance of stopping him before he returns to terrorize Tamriel is Hermaeus Mora.”

  
Even with the summer tan, her face visibly paled. Delphine wiped her mouth, thinking. Varden wondered if she could find an opening, some way forward he had missed in his haste. There had to be something.

  
Delphine shook her head. “Varden, I can't- There has to be another way-”

  
“There is no other way! Damn it, I've _looked_ _!_ ” Varden yelled, walking away to pace in circles. He gestured angrily toward the northeast. “He's holed up in that damned book and I can't get to him!”

  
Delphine looked to the ground, hands on her hips. Falling pebbles made them both turn; Delphine's shoulders relaxed with relief.

  
“Esbern: we need some way to get to this Miraak in Apocrypha. There has to be something. You found Alduin's Wall when we needed it.”

  
The elderly Nord frowned. “I'm not a miracle worker, Delphine.”

  
“Find. _Something_.”

  
“I don't know what I'm looking for-”

  
“I'll help. We'll all help. I- Varden.” Delphine reached up and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  
He wanted to believe. They weren't suffering from Miraak or various court politics thwarting their every move. They were clear-headed; they would find something. Even so, the cloud of doubt, of... helplessness, refused to dissipate.

  
Delphine seemed to understand. “Varden, if we can't find anything in... two weeks, then we'll...” She sighed. “We will be there for you.”

  
The recruits started down the hill and she backed away. Varden looked to Esbern, relief coming over him at last. Delphine was right: Esbern had found far more elusive minutia regarding the dragons. There was some hope, he just had to hold onto it. Esbern would find something. He always did.

  
“Go on. Don't miss your meeting.” Delphine smiled wryly.

  
Varden rolled his eyes and whistled for Snow. He did still need to make Markarth by sundown.


	7. Chapter 7

Miraak snapped _Treaties on Alteration_ shut and dropped it off the edge of the walkway. She nodded with a thin smile as it splashed into the inky pool three levels down. 'Gloop' was a sound of endless satisfaction. It was important to take every small victory, win every rebellion. And the Prince's momentary inconvenience of having to recall and return a book to its 'proper place' in the shelving cacophony was a very small rebellion.

  
It was a brief distraction from the true source of her irritation. She walked into one of the bending tunnels that connected the sections of _Waking Dreams_ ' main library. The tentacles in the pools reached up and snapped at her - one landed a blow on the back of her shoulder - but she ignored them. More irritations, not even worthwhile distractions.

  
The more she calculated the power needed to escape Apocrypha, the more she worried she would never have enough. For herself it was only a few more, but Sahrotaar and the rest would require... an ungodly amount of souls. Perhaps even all the souls of every dragon Alduin resurrected, and she was fast approaching the limit of souls she could claim.

  
Perhaps she could try summoning them once she returned to Tamriel, binding them to the Earth Bones and slowly wrenching them free of Apocrypha. It wasn't how she wanted to do things but she couldn't see any other option. And Varden...

  
She offhandedly noticed the tell-tale clean cover of a new book and slid it off the shelves, tucking it under her arm. Varden's prolonged absence from any dragon kills worried her. She didn't need him killing dragons to further her plan, but the change in his behavior was unprecedented. And 'sulking because she was clearly superior' only explained so much. He was on Solstheim now, but she didn't care to waste another dragon irritating him. Still, he was being entirely too _quiet_ and it was unnerving.

  
Miraak stopped. Now that she listened, all she could hear was the rustle of pages and the lap of water. The closest to silence she could remember in the library. It was never silent in Apocrypha.

  
A black blur dropped from the upper level and the walkway clanged under heavy metal. Miraak gasped and stepped back. This was some trick- Hermaeus Mora's doing-

  
Varden swung both swords at her head. Miraak threw her arms up and let the scaled guards catch the brunt of the blow, wrapping her hands around the hilts. Once she had ahold of them she kicked him in the stomach.

  
Varden doubled over and stumbled back, releasing the right sword but not his left. It slid out of Miraak's hand and through her palm. The sudden bloom of pain made her cry out and jerk her hand to her chest, and she barely caught the second sword before it clattered to the ground. They both stepped away from each other and held an ebony sword out defensively.

  
Miraak fought the urge to yank off her mask and study the damage done to her hand. Gods, it hadn't hurt like that in _ages_. This wasn't even her physical body - more a manifestation of her consciousness maintained through sheer willpower and Daedric sorcery-

  
He shouldn't be able to _do that_.

  
“So you do bleed.” Varden chuckled from the floor.

  
“I do have the dragonsblood.” Miraak stated dispassionately despite the tension in her limbs. He was able to mark her before, at the first dragon she claimed. He bruised her throat; she'd thought it odd but she never investigated properly. She just assumed it was an issue with the phantom-

  
No: now was _not_ the time to analyze how this had happened.

  
Varden stood up again and readied his stance. Miraak tucked her right hand behind her back. Her robes and everything else was green, he might not even notice-

  
Varden charged. Miraak snapped her hand in front of her and released the paralysis spell. There was a stifled cry of surprise before Varden dropped to the floor.

  
Miraak scoffed, unable to believe that actually _worked_ , and stepped off the walkway. She had to hurry without making it look like she was hurrying. She had his sword but her hand was dripping blood. She didn’t want to fight, not now, not when she was finally getting close to leaving Apocrypha. That spell would only last so long but she could not afford to run. Running showed weakness and Hermaeus Mora had to be watching. She was avoiding Varden, but she wasn't _running_ from him. She wasn’t afraid.

  
Miraak reached _Chapter I_ 's book and ignored the wave of relief flooding her body. She wasn't safe until she was at her tower and Varden left Apocrypha. The ebony sword would tell her, as it would disappear when he did. She might not even be safe then, if this didn't end obviously in her favor.

  
Heavy footsteps echoed behind her. Miraak snapped her hand down on the pages and warped away. She hadn't dared to look behind her to see how close he was. The open green skies were above-

  
“ _Sahrotaar!_ ”

  
She heard his roar and walked briskly to the opposite side of the small isle. Behind her the air churned and Varden appeared. Miraak turned-

  
Her loyal mount dove from the sky and landed between them, roaring at the hastily-retreating elf. Varden choked back curses and ducked behind a pillar of books. Sahrotaar snapped at him but held his ground as Miraak leapt to his neck. She did not relax until she was safely between his wings and behind his teeth, and then only a little.

  
“Wait for me in Tamriel, Dovahkiin.” Miraak called out. Varden peered out from the safety of the twisting spire. “I will not keep you long.”

  
With that Sahrotaar leapt into the air and sped along the black oceans. Miraak planted her hand on Sahrotaar's neck and glanced behind her. She only got a glimpse of the black armor before pain bloomed in her hand-

  
She cried out and tucked it to her chest, cursing herself for her stupidity. Why did she put pressure on that hand? It ached so keenly she couldn’t _not_ think about it-

  
Miraak growled and tore the glove off, wincing as she saw the damage. Damn. It was still bleeding, and her robes were soaked. Miraak closed her eyes and exhaled, then focused on her hand. It was whole and definitely not bleeding or sliced open. She opened her eyes...

 

It hadn't changed at all.

 

Miraak frowned and tried again. It was simply a matter of willpower, it shouldn't be this hard. That time she slipped off the walkway and broke her arm, it had been difficult but an easy thing to fix. So why...

  
Miraak sighed and cast a healing spell, watching with relief as the wound closed and the blood stopped pooling in her palm. Perhaps, as Varden was Dragonborn and attuned to Time, as well as a visitor from Tamriel, some small aspect of the Earth Bones lingered in _Waking Dreams_. At least while he was here.

  
She glanced down at the sword in her lap as they approached the tower. He was still here? What could he possibly hope to find in the library?

 

 

  
“Daedroth!” Varden shouted to the skies in _Waking Dreams_. His stomach churned as tentacles and that golden eye descended. “Let's make a deal...”

  
He couldn't believe he was here- no, he refused to believe it. Esbern and Delphine and even the recruits had stayed up night after night with him with nothing to show for it but tired eyes and papercuts. This was, as they dreaded, his only option.

  
That didn't mean he had to like it.

  
He hadn't told Delphine - or Esbern - that this Black Book, of the three he possessed, was Miraak's. Neloth had insisted that there was no real danger to his person, as he would simply reappear upon his 'death' in Apocrypha. That bolstered his confidence and was the only reason he went looking for that bastard.

  
He'd hoped to solve this problem at the source but how was he to know there were dragons in Oblivion?! Let alone that Miraak could seemingly command them and- and _ride_ them at will. Heaven help him if he tried to order Odahviing around like that.

  
Wandering through the Chapters of _Waking Dreams_ only infuriated him. It was as if he could smell or hear Miraak's presence and it made his blood boil. Seeing Hermaeus Mora's slowly blinking eye wasn't exactly helping.

  
Varden exhaled and rubbed his mouth. “I want his head. What is it you want?”

  
The Prince chuckled darkly. “For you to surpass Miraak, you will need the third and final Word of Power. You may bend the will of the earth and mortals to your own, but it is not enough. Miraak-”

  
“ _What_ do you _want?!_ ” Varden screamed, letting the thunder of his Voice creep into the words.

  
He was sick of being patronized. He was sick of being the chained bear for everyone else's amusement. He was sick of others gloating over him and he was _especially_ sick of losing. If the price of victory was siding with the Daedra, then he would _do it_. He refused to lose anyone else.

  
There were, however, some things he refused to bargain with.

  
“My soul is mine, and mine alone-”

  
“Unnecessary.” Hermaeus Mora blinked slowly and waved a tentacle. “I have a more desirable proposition for us both. Knowledge... for knowledge.”

  
That surprised him. Perhaps he'd been wrong about the Daedra, but he only thought that for a moment. Underestimating a Daedroth was usually one's _last_ mistake.

  
“Go on.” Varden said cautiously.

  
“The Skaal have kept knowledge from me. The time has come for that to change. Bring me their secrets, and I will give you the Words of Power you need to... defeat my servant.”

  
“The Skaal?” Varden asked, straining to remember the quaint snowy village. “You'll give me a Thu'um for the Skaal's 'secrets'?”

  
“If this proposition is not to your liking, another can be found-”

  
“No, it's just _odd_. Almost as if...” _As if you want me to win_ , Varden realized. _Maybe that fight wasn't so useless after all..._ He peered up at the blinking eye, a new set of questions in his mind. “If you're so willing to betray Miraak, how can I trust you?”

  
“Miraak has served my purposes, but grows... restless. Upon returning to your world, Miraak will continue to serve me despite being free of my direct control. However, it may be time to... replace Miraak with a more loyal servant. One who still appreciates the gifts I offer.”

  
“-I'm not your servant.” Varden snapped. The floating pages dropped for a half-second before continuing their meandering flight. The creaking of the library and gurgle of the sea turned to a growl that made his hair stand on end.

  
Varden mentally reminded himself that he needed to tread lightly here. A Daedric Prince was exponentially more dangerous than a crazed vampire, power-hungry nobles, or even a dragon. This was Hermaeus Mora's realm, and he had come here asking for help. The last thing he could afford to do was bite the... _tentacle_ helping him.

  
“I can't imagine the Skaal will just hand over these secrets. Especially if they've kept them for so long.”

  
Hermaeus Mora's normal long-winded voice was brusque and sharp. “Miraak would have found a way. If you truly wish to surpass my servant, so will you.” The great eye closed and opened, the slit of an iris even narrower than he recalled. “Send the Skaal Shaman to me. His secrets will be mine.”

  
It was a test, it had to be. He had come so far on his own but... He exhaled, admitting that he needed Hermaeus Mora's help to go further; that was why he was here. And he had his support, if he... ran an errand for him. It didn't even seem that difficult, which worried him. Nothing was ever easy with Daedra.

  
Even so, if a few fishing tricks and tribal legends would save Solstheim and all of Skyrim, then he prayed the Skaal were in a listening mood.

  
“So be it.” He said just loud enough to be heard. Varden glanced around the library; it was time to leave. The less tainted he was by Hermaeus Mora, the more likely the Skaal were to accept him.

  
“Dragonborn.”

  
Varden stopped, dreading what the Prince wanted. His hands flew to his chest then his head as a Word engulfed his thoughts. _Hah_. Mind. With skill, it could be used to control the minds of others. The way Miraak had - was - controlling all of Solstheim.

  
Bewildered, he looked to the tentacled eye for explanation.

  
“A gift. In... good faith.”

  
Varden swallowed and nodded, wiping his face before turning away. He already had an idea of how to use this gift. His eyes widened as he saw a lurker silently towering over him. Varden drew his sword-

  
The lurker slammed him into a bookshelf with a sickening snap and that was the last he saw of Apocrypha.


	8. Chapter 8

  
“Father, are you _sure?_ This is the only way?” Frea asked, her voice low enough that Varden knew not to listen in, but he found himself listening all the same.

  
Storn sighed and stopped gathering scrolls long enough to hold his daughter's cheek. Varden adjusted the collection of maps and illustrations he'd been handed.

  
“Our shamen have always warned of a day when Herma-Mora finally wins. Today, it would seem, is that day.” He sighed. “It is the only way to free Solstheim, Frea. Forever. I will do what must be done to see our people free from Miraak's shadow.”

  
Frea nodded after a moment, reluctantly agreeing with him. She left to take her handful of scrolls outside.

  
“And if I am wrong, All-Maker, may our ancestors forgive me...” Storn muttered.

  
Varden exhaled and rubbed his face. Was this even the right thing? He was sure that there was some catch- there had to be, with Daedra involved. Maybe hidden in one of these books was the secret to extending life a hundred years, or a catalog of Atmoran deep-sea creatures. He didn't know Hermaeus Mora well enough to know what he was after.

  
Of course, his life had always been passed around in higher circles like yesterday’s catch, so maybe dragonborns weren't worth much in the grand scheme of things. Wouldn't that be ironic? Hermaeus Mora did seem eager to get rid of Miraak.

  
Storn led the small party of armed foreigners out to the village center and arranged the books in piles. Varden looked over to Delphine. He still hadn't told her that he'd gone to _Waking Dreams_. She would be furious, he knew. He knew it was best to keep that to himself but still... he felt guilty.

  
Varden looked out at the growing crowd of fully-kitted Blades and apprehensive Skaal. He didn't have a plan beyond 'learn the last word and kill Miraak'. He was woefully unprepared and just... faking it.

  
“If you believe you know what you're doing.” Varden said, holding the book out with the thick tentacle embossed cover held shut.

  
“I don't.” Storn admitted quietly.

  
Nonetheless Storn reached his hand out for the book which, a month ago, he swore he would have nothing to do with. The pages opened and the tentacles wrapped around his body. The Skaal recoiled from the demonic display; Frea reached out but curled her hand back to her chest.

  
“At last...” Hermaeus Mora's voice reverberated from the pages. The sky seemed to darken and a sharp wind chilled Varden's blood. Something was wrong.

  
The tentacles tightened around Storn and a thick one shot out of the pages and through Storn's head. Varden couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Frea was screaming. The Blades drew their swords and readied spells.

  
“Lorkhan's eyes-”

  
“The Skaal surrender their secrets _to me_.” Hermaeus Mora gloated, driving the knife deeper into Varden’s shattering psyche.

  
Gods, what had he done?

  
“ _Father_ _!_ ” Frea ran forward with her sword, murder in her eyes. More tentacles slithered out of the book, intending to stop - or kill - Frea.

  
“No, Frea!” Varden caught her and hugged her to his chest. Gods, he couldn't lose anyone else. “Don't touch him-”

  
“Let go of me! _Father_ _!_ Let him go! Demon, let him go!”

  
“Never...” Storn choked out. “Our secrets are... Not... For you...”

  
Anything further died in his throat as the tentacle thrust deeper. Two of the Skaal grabbed a young girl and retreated back inside a house. Some of them grabbed their hunting knives but a new shoot of tentacles convinced them to hold their ground.

  
“Dragonborn, you have presented the gift I requested.” Varden wanted to die at Solitude; somehow, at this moment he felt worse. “Now, I keep my promise. The Word of Power you need to challenge Miraak. You will be a worthy opponent... or a fitting replacement.”

  
Varden's hold on Frea slipped as the Word raced through his mind. He stumbled back into Delphine and Erik's arms, while Frea shot forward and cradled her father.

  
“Varden. _Varden._ ” Delphine hissed into his ear as his legs gave out. “Varden, this isn't your fault- You can't blame yourself-”

  
A keen pierced the air. Frea gripped her father's body tighter.

  
“Yes I can...”

  
Erik fumbled with his grip, trying to slide his arms under Varden’s and pull him to his feet, but Varden’s legs wouldn’t work. He didn’t care to make them work. Nobody was supposed to get hurt, except maybe him. Nobody was supposed to die, except maybe him again, and Miraak.

  
“Frea-”

  
“ _Do not speak to me!_ ” She screamed. The other Skaal gathered around her - one of them slammed the book shut and kicked it across the snow toward Varden.

  
What... was the point of this...? Surely a Daedric Prince had methods of consuming information that didn’t involve murder. Why...

  
Was there even a reason to kill Storn?

  
Varden steadied himself and remained between the glowering Skaal and the Blades. He could hear Delphine’s hand on her sword and the metal scraping against her scabbard. It felt like he stood there listening to Frea for an eternity.

  
“Go!” She yelled at last, looking him in the eyes. “My father sacrificed himself so you could destroy Miraak and free us. _Go_. **_Kill him_**.” Her voice broke and she choked back a sob. “For my father's sake, kill him...”

  
Varden clenched his fists. “Gladly.”

* * *

  
Her robes reeked of blood. She had tried willing the stench away multiple times - the only method of laundering that worked in Apocrypha - and failed. Whether that meant Varden's will was strong enough to permeate hers even hours or days after he left Apocrypha or-

  
Miraak scoffed. Obviously she was unconsciously reminding herself of her carelessness, no doubt to infuriate herself. Or perhaps it was Hermaeus Mora - he was a master of minor inconveniences and this was exactly the sort of petty child's play he would engage in. A reminder of her halted rebellion and that - for the moment - she was vulnerable.

  
Yes, definitely Hermaeus Mora's doing.

  
No doubt the Prince was rubbing his tentacles and convincing himself that this meant the balance had shifted away from her. Preposterous. Of course, she knew since his arrival that Varden possessed _Waking Dreams_ in Tamriel. If she hadn't been so preoccupied, she would have seen that this was bound to happen.

  
She stood still as her mind quieted. The sudden thought that their encounter marked the last time she could walk the library freely sent a chill through her limbs. She hadn't even known he was here. He could have hurt Sahrotaar...

  
Miraak flicked her wrist and focused on the sleepers. Thankfully the additions were finished at the other All-Maker Stones - really, did Varden actually think that would hurt her plans now? - so all that was left was the temple. Unfortunately rebuilding a complicated structure that was razed eons ago took time and skill. The skill she provided but the time she didn't have, not anymore.

  
The Stones would focus her return to the temple, and the temple was the key to this plan. If the daedric magic linking Tamriel and Apocrypha realized it was being tricked before she crossed the threshold...

  
Things could end rather anti-climatically.

  
Sahrotaar roared, his breath no doubt roasting a seeker. None of them tolerated Apocrypha's denizens well, but he seemed to have some personal vendetta this time. Miraak sighed. Hermaeus Mora would no doubt do more than writhe and glare angrily at her for their behavior but, hopefully, in a few hours that would be all he could do. To her at least.

  
Sahrotaar called out his approach, slowly climbing the tower. Miraak rolled her eyes. Yes, no doubt he was very proud of himself for disintegrating beings only slightly less dusty than the books themselves-

  
Miraak’s eyes snapped to the green-black dragon - or more specifically, the ebony figure perched on his neck. Relonikiv roared a warning and hunched down to lurch into the air-

  
Miraak held up her fist. “No. I am a courteous host. Even for a guest such as him.”

  
Sahrotaar wheeled and landed on the edge of the tower's roof. Varden dismounted, as if he'd been riding dragons all his life. Sahrotaar lowed and chuffed at him but Varden only spared him a glance over his shoulder.

  
She searched her dragon's eyes, searching for the dull gaze and absent-minded tics common to Bend Will. She found it, but only barely. Perhaps it was fading. Perhaps he only needed the slightest persuasion to help her rival.

  
How Varden had learned her Shout was an easy question to answer when she considered her jailor. She was beginning to hate that elf.

  
“So, the Last and the First meet at the summit of Apocrypha: no doubt as Hermaeus Mora intended-”

  
“Enough _talk_.” Varden spat, drawing his swords. “I'm putting an end to you once and for all.” He pointed his lead sword toward her menacingly.

  
He couldn't see it, and she knew that, but she frowned. And glared. How dare he? How dare both of them- that idiot elf. Obviously he didn't have enough self-respect to object to being Hermaeus Mora's pawn. Was he so bored in Tamriel, so starved for competition that he couldn't do the sensible thing and _wait_?

  
Impatient toddler.

  
“I don't have time to play with you, elf-”

  
Ice spikes exploded a foot in front of her.

  
“ _Make time_.”


	9. Chapter 9

He was so much stronger than she’d taken him for.

  
Miraak dodged another eagle-eyed ice spear and hurled a mass of tentacles at Varden. The nimble-footed bastard dodged its reach easily, rushing in to close quarters and forcing a retreat. She learned quickly the best way to block his swings was to keep out of reach. A dozen papercuts dotted her robes where she had been too slow before; a few of them bled when she moved. He wasn’t slowing down.

  
She should have known something was wrong when Sahrotaar did not return. She never expected to see Varden sitting tall for all Apocrypha as he rode her servant - _her_ Sahrotaar - to her tower. As if he had every right to be here, as if he had defeated her already.

  
She should have realized he had a reason to be confident as he rode into her domain.

  
The sight of the ghostly bright armor over his ebony made her chest burn. Hermaeus Mora. That conniving, wheedling trickster. Miraak wondered what deal he had made with the elf; what secret knowledge he had promised, what price Varden freely paid to defeat her with _her own_ Shouts.

  
Were things different - she parried and laid down a wall of tentacles, forcing him to back off for two seconds - she would have offered him the words, shared her understanding with him. Only to keep him in her pocket and out of Hermaeus Mora’s, but what would the demon have had to offer besides her Shouts? Books? Hah.

  
“What's the matter?” Varden taunted. “Getting tired again?”

  
“I don't need to _kill_ you to defeat you.” Miraak scoffed.

  
“Don't tell me you're afraid to get your _hands dirty!_ ” Varden curved his sword inward and slashed at her robes. He tore off an edge and Miraak backed away, swiping her sword at his legs.

  
In truth she was the only one who would pay the price for dying. Varden would return back to Tamriel with scarce more than a quickened heartbeat. He would be back soon enough and even if she kept the dragons here Hermaeus Mora would keep sending him after her.

  
No, it was better to seal off the tower from future incursions. Besides, she only needed a few more souls to cross the boundary back to Tamriel. Souls she didn’t _have_ ; she already reclaimed all but two of them and she needed more than that now, with Varden at her heels. She needed unclaimed dragons, whose souls hadn’t been sworn or won by anyone, dragons that-

  
“ _Feim Zii Gron!_ ”

  
An ebony blade sliced through her ghostly robes and she ran for the central pool where the book was hidden. She concentrated, willed it to surface. It did not.

  
Varden caught his breath and downed a potion before striding over to stand before her. He held himself stiffly, barely contained rage trembling underneath the ebony plate. He wanted this to be over, he wanted her dead. And she was tired, so tired, of everything.

  
Miraak reached out for the Book again, encouraged by tiny ripples in the inky water. Not enough, it wasn't enough. She needed more time, she needed more...

  
“Are you quite _finished_ _?_ ”

  
“I am tired of your _interruptions_ , Dovahkiin.” Miraak growled. “Kruziikrel!”

  
The great gray-green dragon alighted on the stones and roared, keeping Varden from advancing for the moment. She allowed herself a few moments of sentiment. Kruziikrel was the first dovah she tested her Bend Will Shout on, and the first of her servants. He was a quiet soul, who only begrudgingly allowed the other two's presence to intrude on his solitude. She loved the way his scales blended in to the putrescent skies most days...

  
Bormah forgive her...

  
“ _Ziil los dii du!_ ”

  
Kruziikrel flailed and screamed, the flesh melting from his body before his bones hit the floor. Varden's arms fell in horror as the soul slammed into her. The intense emotion of betrayal and disbelief melded with her own guilt.

  
She had always intended for all four of them to leave Apocrypha as free souls. She never promised as such to them; it didn’t need to be spoken. But when pushed to the limits of her power, of her abilities, she had done the unthinkable. And she would do it again, she knew now she had to.

  
Perhaps Vahlok was right to remember her as the Traitor.

  
The Ethereal Shout faded and she tore into Varden, scoring his armor here and there and putting him on the defensive for once. Kruziikrel would not die in vain. She would leave Apocrypha with Varden's blood on her robes. He would suffer for forcing her to do this. She would take his soul and use it to bring Relonikiv and Sahrotaar to Tamriel.

  
She laid down a barrier of poison tentacles to cut off his retreat- Varden froze those directly behind him and kicked the shards away harmlessly. He sidestepped a lunge and a chill ran up her spine as she realized she’d left her side and back open. Her staff barely blocked a slash that could have killed her.

  
Stupid. _Stupid_.

  
“ _Fus!_ ”

  
Varden slid back but used the distance to run at her, bringing the swords down on her staff again. They sparred, dancing through give and take until Varden was, somehow, giving more than he took. Where he found the strength to continue she couldn’t fathom. Desperation perhaps.

  
His blade sliced the tip of her mask as she dove backwards. She’d overstretched.

  
“ _Feim!_ ”

  
Miraak ran back to the pool, hands reaching for the Black Book. The water bubbled, but the Book was still hidden. Kruziikrel wasn’t enough.

  
“ _Relonikiv!_ ” The dragon stared at her in horror. “ _Ziil los dii du!_ ”

  
He collapsed to the ground, some of his bones rolling off the tower to the sea below. Miraak bottled the rage and reached again for the Black Book.

  
She gasped. A page lifted out of the water, flicking lazily in the wind. She was so close- Miraak focused and strained, dragging the Black Book and its pedestal up to the surface. Sweat dripped down her face. She just needed enough to place her hand on. The rest of the Book could stay hidden for all she cared. It might even prevent Varden from following her so quickly-

  
Varden yelled and charged up the steps, carving an arc up her gauntlets to her chest. The Ethereal Shout had worn off. She hadn’t been paying attention-

  
Miraak whipped her staff across and barely caught his swords before they landed on her shoulder. He continued slashing, catching folds of her robes here and there, or a scale on her gauntlets. Miraak growled and spun the staff, knocking his swords away for a moment and brought the twisted wood down on his head. It didn’t stop him. It barely even slowed him down.

  
They sparred across the tower, climbing over piles of books, darting behind pillars, hurling Shouts out across the open ocean inches from each other’s bodies. A shadow passed over them, as Sahrotaar hopped from one pillar to another, out of the way of their Shouts. He waited, watching them with bright eyes. This was a duel, a challenge, and he was not allowed to interfere.

  
Varden backed away, glancing down at the shadow. He turned and looked at Sahrotaar, then back at her.

  
He wouldn’t.

  
“ _Gol Hah-_ ”

  
“ _Fus!_ ”

  
Varden stumbled backwards, sliding along the stones. He couldn’t. It went against every principle the dragons held-

  
But Varden didn’t know that. How could he? The dragons had only returned a few years ago, he hadn’t been raised in their culture as she had. And she had brought the dragons in to the fight when she claimed their souls.

  
This was her fault...

  
“ _Sahrotaar!_ ” He roared at her. “ _Ziil Los Dii Du!_ ”

  
The great serpentine dragon screeched and fell, only bones once he hit the stones. Miraak didn’t wait for the soul to finish absorbing, she didn’t try to summon the Black Book - she had the power to do so now, she could feel it. Still golden, she went straight for Varden.

  
A little voice - common sense - screamed that she should at least _try_ to escape but her blood was screaming to spill his. But this wouldn’t end here. He would come after her in Tamriel, and he had to have allies waiting in Solstheim. Here he was tiring, here he was alone, and this was her domain.

  
Vahlok had taken everything from her four thousand years ago. She would not lose what little she’d scraped together to a sniveling _elf_.

  
She brought her sword down on his shoulder and he staggered, but kept moving. He drew his sword’s twin and dove in past her defenses, swatting away her sword and staff in one blur. His arms were stretched away from his core, and so were hers. The same vulnerability. She inhaled and sped through the words and he raced to catch up with her, to Shout before she did.

  
“ _Fus Ro Dah!_ ”

  
Perhaps it was the timing of their Shouts, hers a half-second after his. Perhaps it was the strength of their Shouts. Perhaps it was because she was weakened from the fight even with the additional souls. Perhaps it was because he was an Altmer and so much lighter than any dragon should be.

  
Whatever the reason, their Shouts collided and both Dragonborn went flying. Varden landed on his side, skidding and rolling across the tower’s roof until he tumbled over the edge with a yell. Miraak hit the pillar behind her. Hard. She remembered crying out in surprise, but couldn’t remember hitting the ground.

  
She came to with a ragged gasp, her head and back screaming as she pushed herself up and looked for her weapons. Varden wasn’t in sight. She had to find him, had to have the first strike. Her sword was wedged underneath Relonikiv’s jawbone, her staff teetered on the edge of the tower. Varden was nowhere to be seen.

  
A wave of nausea forced her to her knees, her arms shaking as she blinked sweat from her eyes. She had to get up, she had to keep fighting. She was so close to winning, to freedom. She just had to get up, to find Varden, to kill him.

  
Varden grunted, hauling himself up to the roof and rolling to his back, muttering curses to the sky. Miraak climbed to her feet, swaying and steadying herself, then stumbled toward her sword. All she had to do was kill him, and she could be free. It was so close- she could taste victory-

  
“ _Zun Haal Viik!_ ”

  
Her sword skittered away out of reach. Varden groaned and picked his sword up, stumbling toward her. Miraak scanned the tower: her staff was on the other side of the pool, she could make it if she ran. Miraak quickly cast a healing spell to numb the pain she was going to cause.

  
“ _Wuld Nah Kest!_ ”

  
She heard Varden try to Shout but he only managed a cough. Miraak leapt over the pool, her staff was so close-

  
Pain erupted in her chest and she lurched forward. Her hands touched something slick. Something cold.

  
A sword. Varden's sword was in her chest.

  
Her thoughts quickened as Apocrypha slowed around her. What an idiot, to throw his sword away. Yes, he had two but if he had missed all he had done was armed her- No. No, she needed to focus on healing herself. Stopping the blood. This shouldn’t even be possible. Gods, why was the world spinning- Miraak cried out as she and the sword hit the floor. She could hear Varden walking toward her.

  
“Nn-no...”

  
It couldn't end like this. She couldn't die like this, she was so close to...

  
Miraak gasped, feeling her hold on Apocrypha slipping away. She sat up and pulled the sword out. With the three souls, she should have enough to break through. It would burn every soul she had, but with luck, Varden would think she was dead. And she would be free.

  
Her skin glowed, and she began to burn-

  
Piercing pain shot through her and something in her chest dragged her back to the pool. Miraak screamed.

  
“Did you think to escape _me_?!?” Hermaeus Mora thundered in her ears and under her skin.

  
She _had_ thought to escape him, and Apocrypha. She had fought and schemed and dreamed and she would _make it_ be enough. By Bormah, if she was destined to die she would die in Tamriel.

  
Miraak focused on her souls, on the Black Book underneath her. It rose up from the slick, and the pedestal rose with it. She gasped as the tentacles withdrew from her chest. So he was willing to let her try at least, that was... courteous of the Prince. No, not courteous: curious. The Warden wanted to know where all the cracks in his prison where.

  
She reached forward with trembling fingers and planted her hand on the page.

  
“No!” Varden screamed. She heard armor clinking and his footsteps getting louder. A sword scraping against the tower’s floor.

  
The thought came to her idly that she had died in Tamriel while inside _Waking Dreams_ ; there was a certain symmetry to dying in _Waking Dreams_ while returning to Tamriel. A faint breeze brushed against her gloves, a cold north wind. The pages rustled and creaked as she forced her way in between letters. Her tower snapped away and in its place was nothing.

  
The Daedric magic linking Apocrypha to Tamriel creaked under the weight of a traveler with no body to travel to. There wasn't much time. She would have preferred the precision more souls could have given but she would make do. She had to.

  
It was really the matter of convincing the book that she did in fact have a living body to return to, and letting it create hers from memory. She had used _Waking Dreams_ dozens of times more than Varden had. Her 'pattern' as it were, her fingerprints, were in every page.

  
She didn't focus on what she looked like, that didn't matter. She reminded the book how _strong_ her body was, how young, harkening back to her first visits. She reinforced that it had been a long time since she'd been in Tamriel, but her 'body' was still in her temple sanctum. If she arrived where _Waking Dreams_ actually was - where Varden was - he or his allies would kill her as soon as she arrived.

  
The torpid book did as she suggested, inching her closer to Tamriel. It took constant nudging to keep it on course, but after a small eternity she arrived on Tamriel's threshold in Oblivion.

  
And stopped. This was where she started paying the price for trusting Hermaeus Mora. She burned her way through the veil, a hole just big enough for her own soul carved by a score of dragons. The price to regain her own soul and the time she spent as a guest in Oblivion.

  
The journey slowed as it dawned on the Black Book that there was no body to return her to on either side of the pages. Miraak focused on her remaining souls and began burning them one by one, consuming them completely and using the raw power of dead dragons to bend the Earth Bones to her will. She reached into the incantations between letters and extracted everything the Black Book knew about her physical body. Then she reached into Tamriel and used the dragons to form that body.

  
Her bones came first. Then the organs, the cartilage, the muscle, the skin, the hair, the nails. The body grew quickly but each soul was burning up like moth wings; an entire soul went toward her dragonsblood alone.

  
A nagging voice in the back of her head whispered there might not be enough.

  
“Come on: _breathe_.” Miraak cursed at her body. She spent another soul forcing the heart to pump and the lungs to move. Kruziikrel’s soul, she realized. There was just Sahrotaar and Relonikiv left. Miraak burned them both without another thought and leapt, not knowing if she had anywhere to land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter (and the next one) have actually been done since... pretty much forever (this story's seen a lot of plot changes and revisions. _a lot_ ) but I held off on posting it because I had a couple hangups that I had to work out before posting this, in case I needed to change plot arcs in chapters 9 - 11.
> 
> 1) Varden (as of last chapter's posting) was indistinguishable from another M!Altmer!DB of mine, and I had to fix that cause I hate writing the same character with a different name. Since Mel hasn't been posted anywhere I made the most changes with him so Varden stays the same, and did some backstory exploration with Varden to further cement the quests and paths he took to get to where he was in chapter 1. Mel and Varden still feel very similar but I think they're different enough now that this isn't an issue anymore.
> 
> 2) F!Miraak was (unconsciously, unintentionally) transcoded... which conflicts with later plot. (Figures that would happen during a genderbend, lol *headdesk*) Changing that felt disingenuous (and unlike other works I don't intend to edit previous chapters for anything more than spelling errors/formatting) so I was stuck with... squick and conflicting character goals. After ruminating on it I think the closest way to describe her (and Varden honestly) are non-binary/genderfluid. It's not that they think they're the opposite gender (or a different gender) it's just that they don't care and that part of them is more dragon than human and always has been.
> 
> 3) I just keep rewriting chapter 11 as the needs of later plot change to actually make sense. That's where the main plotline/conflict for the ~~second half~~ of the story is set up and... _how_ stuff goes down in that chapter affects Varden and F!Miraak's relationship going forward. I'm going to try and do one final rewrite and draw on a few plotlines from earlier drafts, so I can get this going again.
> 
> I also had work pick up and it's still busy (it's still hella busy) but I think the workload will be lighter going forward. That and my other account's series had its first work wrap up with several major revisions right up to the penultimate chapter, but I'm at a breathing point with that and I've got the above hangups mostly worked out, so....
> 
> stay tuned...


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when in doubt, rewrite and rewrite again.
> 
> If that fails, combine the chapter that works with the one you're struggling on and cut out the problem scene entirely (that will teach it to give you writer's block)

Miraak's robes and mask turned to ash and fell onto the black water with nary a ripple. Miraak was nowhere to be found. Varden stumbled through the water and nearly slapped his hand on the pages but he stopped himself. He never wanted to come back here again, and this was Hermaeus Mora's realm. The Demon of Knowledge. If the Prince didn't know what happened to the First Dragonborn, no one would.

  
“Where is he?” Varden panted, searching the water with his feet for what remained of the man. “Where is he?!”

  
The tentacles in the sky slowed, and the rumble of a quiet laugh grew from the horizon to the zenith. “Miraak... has escaped.”

  
“ _No_ _!_ ”

  
He couldn't have failed. He had _had_ him- his sword had been in Miraak's chest. Varden had promised Frea he would kill Miraak, so Storn's sacrifice wasn't in vain. The man was dying and he had the audacity to run away? It flew in the face of everything he knew about Nords, and spat on the memory of one in particular.

  
“Miraak has passed beyond my sight... for now.”

  
“If he's back in Tamriel...” Cold sweat broke out under his armor. What would happen if Miraak killed him in Tamriel? Would he be trapped here... like Miraak was?

  
Gods, how could he be so stupid?

  
Varden slammed his hand down on the page. He just hoped he was in time. His eyes adjusted to the familiar white and blue horizon of the Felsaad Coast at night. His ears honed in on the muffled clacking of wooden spoons on bowls, the crackle of a fire, the breath of a wind and quiet conversations. Everything else was quiet.

  
“Varden? Varden!” Delphine threw down a bowl and jumped to her feet, running over to his side. “Varden, you- you won-”

  
“Where is he?”

  
Confusion passed over her face. “Varden?”

  
“He-” Varden spun around, eyes darting in search of the green and gold figure. He was here. He had to be. Where else would he have appeared? “He escaped. He- he isn't here? He must have come here. The- the book-”

  
“Varden-”

  
“I don't have time to discuss this, Delphine!” Varden screamed. “I have to find him. I have to stop him before-”

  
In the distance, he heard the whisper of a Shout. Whirlwind Sprint.

  
Miraak.

  
Where was he going? His temple? Was there something hidden there? Was that the point of rebuilding the damn thing? Was he going to Raven Rock? Tel Mithryn? Skyrim? What was Miraak's plan?

  
It didn’t matter. All he had to do was follow him and kill the bastard. Varden checked that he had his swords and a bag of potions before shoving Delphine to the snow.

  
“ _Wuld Nah Kest!_ ”

  
“Varden? _Varden!_ ”

* * *

  
Cold. That was the first thing her mind registered as her eyes opened in her new body for the first time. The second was that she'd forgotten what the roof of her sanctum looked like. The third that the entire complex was freezing without the usual fire under her feet.

  
Miraak raised her arms, more to see that she could than to look at them. The sleeves sagged around her elbows and her golden gloves reflected what little light there was in the chamber. So she had thought to give herself clothes: that was a relief.

  
She cleared her throat and checked the rest of her. Strangely enough, she felt the familiar weight of her mask on her head, and her fingers confirmed it. She hadn't expected Hermaeus Mora to let her keep it, but perhaps it was a reminder of the time she spent under him. Her robes no longer felt tattered, or at least she couldn't find the tears and holes she'd grown accustomed to. Everything was in its place and felt ten times better than she remembered.

  
Miraak chuckled and tapped her head against the floor. The Black Book had returned her _exactly_ the way she had been four eras ago. Of course, it shouldn't have returned her to the Merethic Era... She _hoped_ it hadn't.

  
She held the pedestal and got to her feet- Miraak jerked her hand away from the pedestal, casting candlelight. _Waking Dreams_ wasn't there. So this was the Fourth Era, and the Book was with Varden. She wasn't in danger of accidentally returning to that prison. Her heart kept up the war beat nonetheless.

  
Her boot touched something wooden and she picked it up. Her staff, but she didn’t recognize the feel of Apocrypha's twisted wood. The Candlelight ball showed it was not the staff she was used to but a much older one, a dragonshead that, if she remembered correctly, breathed a wall of flames instead of poisoned tentacles. Miraak tapped her left hip, unsurprised to find her sword there. From the feel a longsword in the Nordic style, but nothing green or slick with tentacles.

  
Not the same as she had been when she left. She remembered now. Younger. This body couldn’t be older than she had been when she defeated her first dragon. _Earned_ her Words even by Morokei and Krosis’ standards.

  
Yearning filled her bones and she raced up the short passage to the secret entrance. Miraak crawled out of the stone door before it finished rising and snatched the mask off her face so she could breathe properly.

  
It smelled like pine and fresh snow and wet dirt... She had become so used to the scent of books and Apocrypha's waters that she had forgotten what the real world smelled like. The aroma of pine, crisp water, the cold northeastern wind, and _Tamriel_ hit her like the wall of a winter storm.

  
Her eyes softened as she looked at the sky. She was home at last. She knew these skies, she could read those clouds. It was sometime in late Morning Star- she could see the Thief peering over the southeastern horizon and the polar stars told her it was close to midnight.

  
She felt... the word 'giddy' came to mind but she'd never used it to describe herself before. Giddy, at being free. In the moonlight her sleeves - her robes - were a vibrant sage green. Over the ages in Apocrypha she'd forgotten the rich color they'd once had, but thankfully _Waking Dreams_ hadn't. There was so much she'd forgotten...

  
Her gaze turned south and the motes of ash hung in the air as if frozen. Her eyes narrowed. She made a promise a lifetime ago, and she intended to keep it, Varden be damned.

  
“ _Wuld Nah Kest!_ ”

  
Somewhere behind her she heard Varden Shout. Damn, he was closer than she thought. Some part of her knew that he was nearby, and that he would follow. The rest of her didn't care. She raced along the snowy paths long forgotten and counted the steps in her head. Five hundred. A thousand. Two. Four.

  
At five thousand she pivoted and turned left, recognizing the ancient valley. She loved this place once. Seeing the devastation of Red Mountain, it made her chest ache. So much had changed, there was so much she hadn’t been here for...

  
Miraak slowed when she reached the fallen ravine and strode down it. The hillside around the tomb was artificial, and the area directly above the entrance had collapsed in a far-reaching tremor. She had easy access, but then so did Varden.

  
Again, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

  
She threw the door open and stormed down the steps. Her blood boiled at the sight of what Vahlok and his arrogance had done to _her_ tomb. Killing her wasn’t enough it seemed, he had to take every obvious detail that marked the now-ancient stones as hers and twist it into some cruel, lackluster motif. Everything except the layout and the odd brazier was an even _more_ mundane facsimile of the tombs in Skyrim.

  
Perhaps she was irritated as well by Varden’s presence: he was now at the doors she’d thrown open. He was even more aggravating in Tamriel, but perhaps that was due to her physical body more than anything he was doing, unconsciously or not.

  
Still, she had underestimated him in Apocrypha and nearly died. Now was not the time to take chances.

  
“ _Feim!_ ”

  
True to her suspicions, an ice spike shattered against the arch leading to the inner sanctum. She didn’t grace him with a look. She knew he was angry she had escaped him yet again, and again, she didn’t care. She had more important things to focus on.

  
Miraak stormed the steps to the inner sanctum, marching straight toward the caged gate that cordoned off the burial chambers from the tomb proper. Her feet hovered over the invisible platforms and she could feel the ancient pattern shifting through faint vibrations. She readied the spell. Varden ran straight at her-

  
He yelled and dropped like a stone. Miraak spared a glance down. It was a _very_ long drop and with any luck he'd broken his arrogant, foolish neck. His own fault for not knowing Levitation - or not using it if he did. There were magical platforms that allowed lesser men to walk through the inner sanctum, but he would have to climb out of the moat first.

  
He splashed to the surface below her.

  
“Miraak!”

  
Miraak continued walking, reaching the far side and following the corridors to the next moat. It would take Varden time to catch up with her, and figure out how the magical platforms worked. Varden however, would need the claw if he wanted his allies to join him. Gods only knew where Vahlok had hidden it.

  
Idly she wondered if the draugr in here were loyal to her or Vahlok. It likely didn't matter. Draugr weren't known for their intelligence or recognition skills.

* * *

  
When Varden finally hit the water the chill hurt almost as much as the impact, both wrenching the air from his lungs. He floundered and spun, slowly sinking in his armor. Panic set in. He was in the heaviest armor imaginable and he had no idea how deep this was. Varden kicked and clawed, fighting his way to the surface.

  
He gasped, coughing and looked around. The pit of water stretched as far as he could see, the only landmark being the wall he’d fallen off of. Varden cursed and swam over to it. Above him, he could barely make out the retreating, levitating form of his quarry.

  
“Miraak!”

  
That bastard kept walking, didn’t even look down at him. Varden spun, keeping an arm on the wall and ‘hopping’ along it as he searched for a ladder, stairs, a rope, _something_.

  
“Varden!”

  
Varden looked up. Delphine.

  
“Down here!” He yelled up at them. “He’s across this moat doing gods know what. Are there stairs anywhere?”

  
“We’re looking!”

  
Varden grunted and continued heading left. He could hear them scrambling around above, and the sloshing of the water as he bobbed through it. Varden grimaced. He didn’t want to think about how long this water had been here, or where it’d come from, or how much it smelled like bloated, rotting carcasses-

  
“There’s stairs here!” He heard Illia yell behind him. Damn it, he’d have to backtrack-

  
“And here!” Ralis cried, sounding like he was just around the corner.

  
“Whichever you’re closer to!” Delphine offered. “Get these braziers lit. We need to see.”

  
“There’s got to be a bridge or something...” He could hear Ralis muttering.

  
Varden hopped again and plopped into the water, running out of wall to hang on to. He floundered, his feet sinking into silt and dredging gray sand up into the water and he couldn’t see. Varden tried to jump to the surface but the sand was too soft to push against.

  
He was investing in a Ring of Waterbreathing if he survived this.

  
A hand shot down and grabbed his arm, hauling him forward toward the wall- no, a set of stairs. Varden pushed himself up, giving Ralis enough room to come up himself. Varden gasped and climbed up, gulping down air as he climbed the steps. Delphine raced down the steps and slipped an arm under his elbow.

  
“Varden, are you alright?”

  
“He's in there.” He pointed behind him toward the far ledge. “He just- There's an invisible path or something. I don't know how to make it visible.”

  
“Esbern! There’s a bridge. Make it work.”

  
“A moment, give me a moment...” The old man grumbled.

  
Delphine helped him up the steps, though by the top Varden was walking on his own. He grimaced and shook the scum-water and brackish moss off his armor and stood behind Esbern. Gathered around them were the Blades recruits, and Frea. Varden swallowed.

  
Esbern pulled a lever in the central pillar. A half-second later, a ghostly platform emerged. Varden stepped forward-

  
“Wait, Dragonborn.” Esbern cautioned.

  
Varden scowled but did as he was warned. Several other platforms snapped into existence, but as the seconds dragged on the first evaporated, then the second and the rest.

  
“I should have guessed it would not be as easy as that.” Esbern muttered.

  
Delphine shifted. “There’s a pattern to it. Look.”

  
“I see it.” Varden said. He moved to the edge and turned back to Esbern. “Wait for me to cross. I’ll see if there’s a lever or chain on the other end.”

  
“-Varden. Don’t run ahead. Wait for us.”

  
“It aah... there may be more traps ahead, and there is strength in numbers.” Esbern offered quietly.

  
Varden groaned and shook his fist but the voice of doubt in his head reminded him they were right. He couldn’t kill Miraak before, he couldn’t follow him in time to catch up- he couldn’t even navigate a damn tomb right and he once cleared those with ease. The doubt gnawed at him but he waited for Esbern to pull the chain again.

  
The eerie blue platform snapped into place and he hurried onto it, moving from one to another and making sure to keep his balance and his eye on the next one. The platforms meandered over nearly every inch of the chasm, taking their time as he began to worry it would never reach the other side. What if this was some trick to drop him in the water again? In the deep end, where there was no wall to save him?

  
The platforms edged closer, close enough that he could jump to the far ledge but he waited in case that was a feint. He’d never seen platforms like these, especially not in Nordic tombs, and he didn’t trust Miraak half as far as he could ‘Fus Ro Dah’ him. The last platform appeared, neatly between the penultimate and the ledge and he set a light foot on it before leaping to the solid stones.

  
A peal like a gong rang out as the platforms vanished. Varden turned around, just in time to see the platforms bridging the gap straight from the cage to his ledge. He sighed. At least the Blades wouldn’t have to fool around with that nonsense. Delphine joined him first, laid a hand on his arm, and marched on ahead. Varden made sure the others made it safely and followed, unsurprised to see yet another chasm at the end of a hallway with another lever.

  
Why would Miraak make anything easy?

* * *

  
The stone cracked and spun as the ancient seals were forced into place through sheer will and her Shout. The outer ring slammed into place and the wall trembled: Eagle. The second did the same with the Wolf token, and the heart of the seal threw the Merethic locks out of place as it stopped a moment later. The heart of a dragon.

  
Who sealed him in here, Miraak wondered? Morokei and the others? The people of Solstheim that he had stolen from her? Someone loyal to her, who refused his lies, and waited years if not decades to exact revenge?

  
Or had Vahlok sealed himself in the final chamber? Coward.

  
The door slid into the floor and she snapped a magelight ball across the expanse. The light illuminated a long pool and narrow corridor, barely larger than a dragon. She frowned. He had kept the pool...?

  
The logic behind his decision became clear as she stepped forward into the room. The floor was covered in trapped pressure plates, save the dais leading to the Hall of Stories, and the pool; personally, she would have trapped the pool’s bottom as well. Miraak’s eyes narrowed, but she recast her Levitation spell nonetheless. She would be a fool to assume Vahlok had forgotten over the years, the spells she knew. She had been trapped for ages in a library, the only spells she _didn’t_ know were ones that failed to interest her. She stretched out her hand and stepped into the room, mildly surprised that her magicka returned at its same steady rate as usual. A magicka regeneration dampening enchantment for the entire room would have been her first installation. Further proof he was less than her equal.

  
Still. The inner chamber was solitary, a marked departure from the mainland tombs he so reverently copied in the outer chambers; only a memorial wall behind his sarcophagus broke the monotony of muraled wall and pillars lining the pool and trapped tiles. It resembled an arena, a prison, more than a sepulcher. She walked above the tiles, stepping lightly a few inches above the water as she walked the pool’s length. So he expected this fight, perhaps even wanted it as much as she did.

  
That suited her. She couldn’t imagine taking her revenge on an opponent who refused to fight back.

  
She neared the end of the pool and drew her sword, taking comfort in the familiar grip and weight of it as much as how real it was compared to the illusory ‘weapons’ in Apocrypha. The sarcophagus splintered and the dragon priest inside rose from its slumber. From behind her she heard a Shout and her brows lowered. Varden and his following were no doubt clearing the shades she had passed in the long halls leading to the Hall of Stories. Those emaciated spirits wouldn’t keep them for long.

  
The draugr stretched its neck, dust of skin and bone flaking off onto the floor, as it stared at her, then behind her. Its jaw hung slack, turning ice blue eyes to her. For a moment, she thought there was a flash of recognition, either at her mask or the Shouting of a Dragonborn in the tomb. Only a flash, and then it was gone, replaced with the same single-minded lackluster glow of a spirit long bled away from its husk.

  
This was all that was left of Vahlok the murderer.

  
Miraak gripped her sword and staff tighter. “ _Su Grah Dun!_ ”

  
They spoke no words save Thu’um. Through all the parries and blows and exchanges of their fire staves, neither one attempted speaking in a mortal tongue. She had said all she cared to in Apocrypha. She began to wonder if there was enough of his mind left to hold a conversation after the years of undead slumber. The preservation process could be fickle in what was actually preserved of a Nord. The years of privileged subservience to dragons might have already dulled his individual soul enough there was little to preserve in the first place.

  
She remembered little of the fight. It might have been one for the ages or something an uninspired scribe scrawled in the margins of a greater book. All that mattered to her was the moment. The weight of her sword sinking into stale flesh or slicing off the scales of his priest armor. The distance her staff hurled him backwards when it overpowered his. The rasping rattle of his breath as she marked him. Again. And again. And again.

  
All the while, in the back of both their minds, raising the hairs on her neck, the Thu’um in the outer halls grew closer.

  
They were no longer fighting for Vahlok’s life: he had already lost. This had never been about whether or not she would kill him. She was the better fighter, with a younger, living body, and decades more experience in single combat. The question was, as it always had been, when she would tire of him and the games they played. When the marks on his flesh and what remained of his armor balanced the scales of the pain, the anguish she had suffocated under in Apocrypha.

  
When she decided he had cheated death long enough.

  
Miraak sidestepped the scattered stones of his sarcophagus lid, backing toward the memorial wall. He wasn’t clever enough to sense a feint, but she suspected it would have evaded him even in life. Vahlok only saw that she was ‘cornered’ and raised his staff-

  
An especially loud Thu’um drew his attention away, toward the door. Shouts in a common tongue echoed up the Hall of Stories after it, though she saw no sign of movement.

  
Miraak planted her feet as the draugr snarled and turned back to her-

  
“ _Fus Ro Dah!_ ”  
  
The Shout struck his body and what was left of him disintegrated, leaving a trail of dust toward the inner pool and a few ripples in the groundwater. The gold circlet and what remained of the metal of his chest armor clattered to the ground, skidding away from her. Miraak rolled her shoulders and stretched; listening, watching, waiting.

  
It was over.

  
Her arms were shaking, though from emotion or fatigue she couldn’t tell. Miraak inhaled shakily: there was little time to celebrate her revenge, with Varden approaching the Hall of Stories. Killing Vahlok had exhausted her more than she liked, and she didn’t relish the thought of fighting Varden on anything less than equal ground. Her mouth twitched; she could deal with him another time. For now she needed to leave this tomb, and decide what she wanted to do now that her one goal was accomplished.

  
Miraak sheathed her sword and hurried to the stones behind the memorial wall. In her blueprints, she had drawn several variations on the standard burial tunnel that would allow those interring her to return to their lives above. She didn’t remember them all off-hand, but once she was inside the tunnel she was sure it would come to her.

  
Miraak stopped and frowned at the wall. There was no door. No lever. No secret chain. Nothing. Just a wall.

  
She hissed and ran her hands over the stone, searching for a catch, a false brick- anything.

  
“ _Gol._ ” She whispered.

  
Her heart went in two directions, dropping into her stomach and leaping up to her throat, as she gained the sight of what exactly lay before her. There was no secret tunnel, only solid rock. Her hands started shaking, patting the stones even as her eyes and mind told her there was nothing behind the wall. She could move it and make the passage herself, given the time, but there was no time. Forcing her will on stones this deep with herself surrounded by them - when Varden knew the same Shout - would only lead to a duel in very intimate quarters.

  
Miraak ran back to the gold trappings that remained of Vahlok, rummaging through them for a scroll of teleportation, a locket, a Black Book, _anything_. Surely he had allowed the ones who interred him some alternate method of _leaving_ the final chamber besides the long and now trapped route they had come in. He was many things, but in all his years from acolyte to priest he had never fully exemplified a dragon’s selfishness like most of the others. She told herself he wouldn’t have done that to whatever loyal souls laid him to rest, even as she began to dwell on the possible origin of the shades Varen had finished dispatching. He wouldn’t-

  
The voices in the hall grew louder. Her breathing was unsteady. Miraak pushed herself off the floor and ran to the sarcophagus. Perhaps there was a passage underneath-

  
Her eyes fell on the sarcophagus interior, on what lay underneath a paper-thin but unbroken layer of stalhrim, and she stopped breathing.

  
Irreverent bastard.

  
The Bend Will Shout was fading, but she thrust out a shaking hand. The lid of the sarcophagus pulled itself off the floor and back together, jagged piece and powdered dust at a time. The circlet and armor flew from the floor in between pieces of stone, skittering along the stalhrim inside. Pressure fused the lid together again, and her arm was trembling as the Shout faded completely.

  
Even if this day was her first and last spent back in Tamriel, there was some relief knowing that Varden would not find but certainly never understand what lay inside Vahlok’s sarcophagus. No one else would understand what he had done. No one else would know who he was, this nameless, forgettable dragon priest, interred in a tomb lost to time.

  
“ _Miraak!_ ”

  
Her mind quieted even as the panic strangled her. Varden was in the chamber, ebony slick with groundwater where it wasn’t covered in bone dust, flanked by three warriors young and old on either side. From beneath her mask she saw his helmet shift, the eye slits staring directly at her, and she felt cold. She reached for her sword in its sheath, bringing her staff around to block-

  
“ _Wuld!_ ”

  
“ _Feim-_ ”

  
They hit the center of the memorial wall with enough force to send splinters up to the dragonshead at its crest, her pressed against the stone by the weight of his ebony armor. Her armor barely counted as such, being more robes and enchanted leather than metal.

  
She wasn’t fully ethereal.

  
They hit the ground. Varden rolled to his feet, pointing one sword at her and the other at the sarcophagus. He didn’t notice the dust on the floor, coating the steps down to the pool. The tattered strings of purple cloth long faded by time. She didn’t care to correct him. She couldn’t tell if she was struggling to breathe because she couldn’t or because the pain was too great to do so properly.

  
Miraak lifted a shaking hand, trying and failing to find a position where moving didn’t send bolts of white pain through her chest. She was ethereal now, now that it didn’t matter but at least she had a few minutes left to live. Varden and his band couldn’t harm her further. So long as she did nothing to break her concentration on the Shout. Such as healing herself.

  
There was a scream and the hiss of a flame jet toward the entrance. Varden shifted his feet, wavering between standing over her and helping his friends. Miraak tried pulling herself across the stones, but just tensing her chest set it aflame. Her head lolled to the side, mask askew as her breath echoed inside it, Vahlok’s sarcophagus looming through the one eye slit she could still see out of.

  
Vahlok.

  
He’d killed her. He’d killed her again.


End file.
